


A Splendid Time

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Body Dysphoria, Child Abuse, Dark Past, Discrimination, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Swearing, Torture, Trans Female Character, Transgender, Transitioning, Transphobia, Transsexual, transtalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 18:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 40
Words: 32,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12138522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Arthur Jones has the perfect life. A handsome husband, a beautiful home, and a bright future... until his dark past threatens to take it all away from him. Fleeing Alfred's transphobia, he meets an unlikely ally: an albino German hitman named Gilbert who, despite living in the shadows, may just be the light of Arthur's new life.[USUK, PrUK. SuFin.](Nyo!England. Nyo!Hungary.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged this story with "England" and "Female England" but in truth it's more a combination of the two, or rather my interpretation of said mixture. Sex reassignment is different for everyone, and though I've been vague regarding surgeries, there is still little accuracy in my depiction of the process. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
>  
> 
> [EDIT: Heyo! If you're reading this fic for the first time or re-reading it as perhaps some form of recompense for past sins, I would like you to know - I wrote this story two years before I figured a fact out about myself, and that fact is that I am a trans guy. So my concept of gender dysphoria was much more blurred back then than it is now, and my understanding of SRS and HRT was ludicrously bad. Seriously, me, you did no research, you twit. Also, England is pretty OOC. That happened a lot in my old fics -.-]

** ARTHUR **

Sometimes I feel like I could be dead for a century and I'd still be completely exhausted.

Tonight, the largest blight on my existence is this party. Are they even called parties anymore? Last year they were parties, the year before they were called socials, and I think the year before that they were get-togethers. Who knows what they've come up with this year. As with the clothes, the decor, the food, language goes in and out of style. Fortunately, as the only Brit among thirty-odd American businessmen, I'm considered exotic. The things that come out of my mouth are simply amusement; nothing to put any serious thought into. Just something for the wives to comment about on the way home. _My, doesn't Mr. Jones have an odd way of speaking? A good thing he spoke slowly, or I'd have difficulty understanding the poor man!_

No, scratch the last bit. They wouldn't take pity on me. And for good reason.

On the surface, my life is a joyful one. A young, disowned Brit moved back to the Colonies, only to meet a bright, handsome American man fresh out of university. My white knight, rescuing me from whatever hideous mistakes I would have made if I stayed in that "hole-in-the-wall" pub. He took me home like I was a stray mutt, which I suppose I was. Cleaned me up, fed me until my ribs weren't so painfully visible, and accompanied me to AA until, on the anniversary of our relationship's drunken origin, he proposed to me with a band of pure gold. My name was engraved on the ring, as well: _Arthur_ in elegant cursive.

 _Shame,_ I told him, _that it doesn't have your address and phone number on, in case I run away._

He slipped the promise ring onto my finger and smiled that gorgeous smile. _You'll never run away. You're a good boy._

Oh, yes. I'm a good boy. Trained to sit, stay when Alfred has business abroad. Heel when we go out in public. And when the bowtied waitstaff walk by with champagne flutes on silver trays, the bubbling alcohol so close I can just _taste_ it?

"Hey," Alfred says, gently grasping my wrist as I reach for a glass. He's smiling, but his brow is furrowed. Everyone has to smile here. The mouths stay the same. The eyes are what to watch.

"I was getting it for you," I say, letting my tone be convincingly defensive. "Simply trying to be polite to my tosser of a husband."

You'd think he would get cross at me for this, for mouthing off. But I know he won't, and he doesn't; he smiles fondly at me and touches my chin with his thumb. His eyes, the blue of a summer sky, hold nothing but adoration in them.

"You're so cute when you're mad," Alfred says, low enough that passersby can't easily hear the flirtation. It's not entirely appropriate, especially since some of the silver-haired businessmen are quietly homophobic.

"I think you mean angry," I say, raising my eyebrows at him. "Mad means insane."

Behind us, the pianist starts a slow song, and couples begin to gather in the area cleared for dancing. I wonder what they do, whatever idly rich pair owns this McMansion, when this dandy lot isn't clustered in it. Does it feel as empty as the grand house Alfred's parents bought us as a ludicrous wedding present?

"Well," Alfred says, taking my hands in his warm, strong ones, "I am crazy about you."

I roll my eyes like he expects, and reluctantly let him drag me onto the formal crowd's version of a dancefloor. Even this, acting as I have always acted around Alfred, makes me feel so tired. It's not because of the night air pressed close to the bay windows, either. I've been playing this part all my life. Only now, now that I've found someone who loves me because of it, do I feel trapped in the personality I've created.

It was so much easier before, when I could just be a bastard and get drunk and be even more of a bastard. It was so much easier when people hated me, and I could say into my glass of Guinness, _I agree with you._

But Alfred Jones loves me because I take the piss out of him, because I'm a mountain to climb, a lion for him to tame. He loves me because I'm an inside joke, and only he knows it. Because we speak in code. _You wanker_ means _I love you._ _Bloody Yank_ is _you're so sexy_. And _sod off_ , of course, translates to _make love to me right now._

Alfred smiles down at me as we embrace in our slowdance, blue eyes twinkling. His lips brush my temple as he murmurs, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

This isn't true. He's the best thing for me, my miracle. But how could I ever compare to the privilege Alfred was born into? What makes me any better than the other lovers he's brought home to his parents?

It's heartbreaking, and it's exhausting, that he can be so happy while I feel so empty. Even now, as his hands hold my waist and mine his broad shoulders, as he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, as we slowly rotate on this shining polished floor beneath golden, diamond-dangling chandeliers . . .

"I love you," Alfred whispers.

. . . I'm just playing a part.

But I owe it to him. So I rest my face against his neck, blocking his view of the dead look in my eyes, and I tell him what he wants to hear.

"Wanker."


	2. Chapter 2

_ And I did. _

_ I did love him. _

_ Don't look at me like that. _

_ I loved him, and he loved me. I was happy with him. _

_ In the beginning. _


	3. Chapter 3

** GILBERT **

"Here's an awesome joke." I'm looking down at my tray of surgical instruments. Oh, yeah, I'm a doctor tonight. Good thing I'm not one of those sadists who jack off to their murders. Shit, that'd be a good one. _What's up, doc?_ My dick, 'cause I'm slicing your goddamn face off. Hilarious, _ja_? I kill me. Anyway.

The guy is one of those who think they're strong and want the world to think it, too, but the guy and the world both know who the pussy is, and it's sure as hell not the world. Have you seen the world? Chews people up and spits 'em back out like those health-food assholes with the pomegranates. Ever see them? Wiggling their lips to suck off all the juicy sour bits, then they pucker up and spew the seeds out like they ain't important. Seeds are totally important. Shit grows from seeds, you know.

Any-fucking-way.

The guy's tied to a chair, and he's glaring at me like he's gonna challenge me. Like he's got dignity. Here's some advice: dignity ain't something to advertise. Good way to fuckin' lose it.

"So, this guy gets this job pushing drugs." I inspect one of the knives, this serrated one you could file your nails with, then put it back down. "The deal is, he handles the deals. The boss gets him the supply, and he gives it to people in exchange for money, and all of that money goes back to the boss."

In my peripheral, I see his mouth open, so I turn and hook my fist into his jaw. His head snaps back satisfyingly, and I scream, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

He stares at me. Ah, there's the pussy fear I've been waiting for. Nobody's fooled now. His hazel eyes have white rings around them. What a shitty color hazel is. Could have been green, but they had to drag it through the mud. What I'd give for a good pair of goddamn green eyes. Jesus.

"Do you know how rude it is to fucking interrupt?" I inquire. "I'm telling a joke. If you ruin the punch line, that is very not awesome. _Comprende_?"

He nods, with a flicker of recognition in those shitty eyes. He knows that I know he's Spanish. He knows that I know everything.

"Right. So where was I." I return my attention to my scalpels. "Right. All the money goes to the boss. All. A-L-L. Not some, not most, not seventy-fucking-five-damn-percent. All of it. And then, from that money, the dealer guy is paid a _percentage_ depending on what he _earned_."

I select a knife about the length of my cock—it's a sizeable knife—and turn to face the Spaniard again. "But then this guy thinks to himself, _Well here's a good idea-clit. Lemme rub it and see what comes squirtin' outta the fate-vag._ " I can tell I'm losing him with this philosophical stuff. I stand close beside him and lay my leg over his thighs, like we're bosom buddies. "Well, lemme tell ya. Just rubbin' the clit won't make her squirt. Life's a bitch like that." I tap the tip of the knife against the freckled bridge of his nose. He winces, but meets my gaze, bless his heart. "So here's the funny part of my awesome joke. The guy's plan was to keep some of the money for himself and not tell his boss. That is a _lie_ of omission, and _that is theft._ "

I pause here, like they do in sitcoms. The Spaniard just keeps staring at me. So I shove the knife between his ribs.

"Why are you not laughing," I say through his agonized wails. "Do you not find it fucking hilarious that he thought he could get away with that?"

He quiets, but his face is twisted with pain. I return to my tray, come back with a smaller scalpel. "Your boss hired me to tell you that he was very disappointed with your work. He will not be giving you a reference for your résumé."

"Please do not kill me, Señor," he says, uneven on account of the knife in his lung. "I have a family."

"Yes, I know you have a family, Antonio Carriedo," I reply as I lovingly stroke his jaw with my scalpel. "A beautiful wife and two kids, and a dog with a curly tail. Probably have the white picket fence, too, if slums had white picket fences."

Breathing's getting hard for him. "I did it for them. They will starve without me to provide—"

"Hush lovey," I say, slipping the scalpel between his lips. His eyes widen in alarm, but I haven't cut him. Not there. Not yet. "Hush hush little lovey bird." I sit on his lap now, put an arm around his shoulders, and whisper into his ear. "Let me tell you a secret. Shhh, shhh. Hush now, and listen, my sweet: _I DON'T GIVE A FUCK_!"

The thrill of feeling him jump when I shout at the top of my lungs gets me all riled up, so I stick the scalpel into his neck, but then I kinda get indecisive and pull it back out again, and the blood spurts out and I, well, I just get a little carried away sometimes, you know, don't we all?

My ass pocket starts to loudly play wonky organ and harmonica sounds, then drums! A lilting voice sings creepily, _For the benefit of Mr. Kite, a show will go on tonight_ —

I stagger back from the bloody mess I've been straddling and, still panting a little, answer my phone. "The fuck?"

"Are you done?" Low, rolling Russian accent. Monotone. Trying to be intimidating. Succeeding quite well.

"Yeah, he's dead, if that's what you mean. Me, I've been done for the past nine and a half years." I tug the scalpels out of the Spanish corpse and walk to the sink on the far wall. I rinse them, holding the phone with my shoulder because I'm just that awesome. "Did you know he had kids?"

"Eh." There's the most indifferent sound I've ever heard. Gotta love it.

"So, still with the same plan?"

" _Da,_ as you were instructed when you were paid. Is there a problem?"

"Nope. Did you want something? I'm working." I roll the dead Spaniard over with my boot and untie him from yet another ruined chair. Sometimes I wish blood didn't stain so much. But usually I don't give a shit.

"You have another job offer. The time and location is open to your choosing. I will send you the other details tomorrow."

Job _offer_ , like I have a choice. "Thanks. Sleep tight, baby cakes."

"Watch yourself." He hangs up. _Ooooh._

I put my phone back in my ass, put away my surgical instruments, wrap up my dead guy in a tarp, and heft him onto my shoulder. "Jesus shit," I mutter under his weight as I lug him up out of my basement, out to my car. "No more quesadillas for you, asshole." The trunk slams like it's the end of the of the world. What a fuckin' drama queen.

I leave Mr. Carriedo propped up against his front door, a bottle of beer in his hand and a note taped to his forehead. Dawn peeks over the horizon as I slam the trunk again, making the curly-tailed dog start yapping in the shitty Spanish slum house. Just as I get in the car, an upstairs window lights up. I don't stay to watch the discovery, though; dawn is coming, so I roar away fast enough to wake up the rest of the street and read my note aloud, just to my awesome self.

"The Prussian was here."


	4. Chapter 4

_ I work at night. _

_ Bad stuff happens in the dark. _

_ Yeah. _

_ I'm the bad stuff. _


	5. Chapter 5

** ARTHUR **

"Artie. Hey. Wake up, babe."

I blink blearily up at Alfred, who I can barely make out in the shadow of our bedroom. The read light from the alarm clock gives his silhouette a demonic red fringe. I wish he was a monster, sometimes. Then I wouldn't feel so terrible about my unhappiness at being with him.

If he was abusive, overbearing, my cage would be real. But as it is, I'm the one who put myself behind these bars, and I hold the key. I'm just so terrified to unlock it. I don't even know how I would. . . .

"You were having a nightmare," Alfred whispers.

"Thanks for reminding me," I mutter through a tired, exasperated sigh. This one is actually genuine, for once. I'd forgotten about the bad dream until he mentioned it, but it's coming back, in all its unspeakable horror.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks gently. He's always so gentle, so kind. Nothing about him is the problem. It's just me who's broken.

"Not in the slightest," I reply. It's the truth. Two in a row, my word. I'm on a roll tonight.

Alfred shifts his weight on top of me, legs straddling mine and elbows braced on either side of me. "Well," he murmurs, lips in the dip of my collarbone, "if you don't wanna talk . . . and you're not sleeping . . ."

I snake a hand between us, reaching for the nightstand, and seize the remote. The television bathes us in blue-tinted light, and I almost get aroused by the image of us, the slope of his back drawing the blankets taught as he—

No. No erection, otherwise I won't be able to stop myself. I cannot have sex while the nightmare is still fresh in my mind. Then I really will go mad.

Alfred groans dramatically and lets his forehead drop to my chest. "Aw, c'mon, Artie. Blue balls tonight, even after you looked so good in that tux?"

"Indeed," I reply flatly, surfing the channels over his shoulder. "You match nicely. Blue eyes, blue blood, blue balls."

"The holy trinity." He drops to his side, smiling. He's not religious at all, and neither am I, these days. I used to go to church when I was young; I remember Sunday school with my brothers, I recall the wee cubes of bread, the sip of grape juice they pretended was wine. _Cheers, lads!_ Nostalgia pricks at my eyes, and I have to pinch tears.

"You okay, Artie?" Alfred asks, rubbing my arm slowly.

"Don't call me that, you know I hate it." I don't hate Artie anymore than I hate Arthur. Most of all, I hate this man who owns the names. "My eyes are just dry, that's all."

"We'll have to buy some Visine tomorrow." Alfred gently relieves me of the remote. "Let's watch one of those TLC shows, you like them. Maybe _My Strange Addiction_ is on, that's the best one."

I do have a fondness for the segments about people who are stranger and more miserable than me. If they can get better, so can I. Right?

He puts TLC on, but it's not anything about addictions or pregnancy as usual. Instead, it's the first episode of a new show called _C'est La Vie of Me._ A blond man with wavy hair down to his shoulders informs us in a sultry French accent, "I am Francis Bonnefoy. I may walk, talk, and look like a man to you, but let me assure you: I am a woman in my heart. Watch me start off as a beautiful man and transform into the true me, _une belle femme!_ A pretty, pretty lady!" He—she?—blows a kiss to the screen, and the screen transitions to the usual reality TV show bollocks of arguing about breakfast with your housemates under the opening credits.

"Jesus," Alfred remarks, with a surprising amount of distaste.

I glance at him. "I've never seen a show about a transsexual's journey. The person might be . . . campy . . . but the science of it could be interesting."

He changes the channel. I'm astonished to feel sadness, like a cold bullet to the heart, when he does. Like my only friend is gone, never to return. Alfred's lip curls in disgust as he says, "Goddamn trannies. I think that's really twisted. Think about that guy's parents. They had a son who they probably loved, and he's taking that away from them."

"But he'd be giving them back a daughter."

"They don't _have_ a daughter, Artie, they have a son. That's why it's so screwed up. It would be like me trying to change into a straight person. I was born gay, and that's what I am. He was born a dude, so he should be that, and not be tearing up his body to make it look like a woman. It's almost sad, really. He clearly has a mental, like, dysphoria or whatever. He should be in therapy to learn to accept his body, not parading around with cameras filming his perverted mistakes."

I can't believe these words are coming out of Alfred's mouth—and so easily, like he's thought about it before, like his point of view is obvious. He has defended our love to homophobes on the street countless times; he was a leading member of the Gay-Straight Alliance in his high school; he has always been the more open-minded one between us. But now he's talking like this, using slurs like a rapper! I can't believe it. I am shocked.

_How am I married to this man?_

Alfred glances at me, shaking his head a little and smiling. "World has a lot of crazy people in it, huh? They'll do anything for some money and attention."

I nod slowly. For the first time, I feel afraid. What might happen if I can't play my part? Uncertainty makes my heart tremble in my chest. "Everyone's mad, if you ask me. You, in particular."

Alfred turns off the TV, and his chuckle fills the silence; it'd be creepy if his laugh didn't sound so handsome and safe. He's a golden boy, an angel. I can't remember him saying the words even as they echo in my head. _Perverted mistakes._ I can't picture the disgust on his face as he looked at Francis on TV. Francis the woman. That's what she is. Even if she looks like a man, she is a woman if she says she is.

 _You were born gay,_ I could say, _and Francis was born a woman. It's just that her body doesn't match, so she has to change it. What is so hard to understand about that?_

But I don't say that. I say, "If I have another nightmare, do me a favor and wake me up by shooting me in the head."

Alfred wraps his arms around me. "Don't joke about that, Arthur," he murmurs. "I could never hurt you. I love you."

I don't know who I am. I press my face into his chest and fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart.


	6. Chapter 6

_ Of course I didn't ask him about his thoughts on trans people when we started dating! Who would ever think of that? Favorite foods, dream job, thoughts on medically unnecessary hysterectomies? _

_ Obviously I would have asked if I knew I'd end up in this mess, but if I knew I'd end up in this mess, I wouldn't bloody well be in this mess in the first place. _

_ I'm not a fortune teller. _

_ God. _


	7. Chapter 7

**GILBERT**

For twelve-ish hours of sunlight, I sleep in my nest of darkness. No light gets in my windows. They have cardboard taped to the glass, blackout blinds over that, and thick ass-curtains covering it all—not to mention my classy as all hell shutters on the outside. Yes, my house is a fine piece of real estate. I'm not even kidding, it looks fucking nice. It should. I do enough work on the damn thing. You'd be surprised how much productivity increases when the rest of the continent is asleep.

When it's dark out again and I can wake up, I do that. My phone says it's 11:48 PM.

"Should I say good morning even though it's night?" I ask no one.

No one doesn't reply. How rude.

I get up. I put on a pair of light grey boxers that someone (probably me) has written _THESE ARE NOT CHEESE_ on in purple Sharpie. The letters aren't on the front or the back; they start in the dick area and creep around the side of my thigh, ending just before my tailbone starts getting ideas. I don't remember the creation of these boxers, but they were an excellent idea.

I wear my boxers and nothing else down into the kitchen. I eat two raw hot dogs, and put their condomy skins into the garbage can. Then I get a box of Lucky Charms from the cupboard, but I've already eaten all the marshmallows out, so I put it back.

"I mean." I regard the silence of my empty existence. It regards me right back, judging. "Fuck me, right?"

My fax machine starts spazzing out, which scares the hell outta me. I follow the sound into my office, AKA the living room, AKA the Fuck Floor. I stand on the nice, soft mat—made out of that squishy shit yoga fools like—and watch a small stack of papers get spit out by the fax machine. I had to buy this thing, can you believe it? With money, from my wallet. Russian Boss Man only sends physical paper, nothing digital. Too easy to corrupt stuff through the internet, he says. Safer to fax, and faster than mail. Fuck if I know if that's actually true, but it ain't my job to ask questions.

I rearrange the papers so they're in the right order. Everybody I'm hired to kill comes with a profile from my boss. He gets me the important but basic stuff. If I want more, I gotta dig it up myself.

I like going the extra mile and tailing the guy for a couple days. I watched the Spanish jackass for almost a week before I snatched him and took him for a tour of my basement. Gorgeous wife. Kinda yappy, like the dog, but good to look at. Kids seemed like nice enough little brats. And I guess the dude was a good dad. He hugged 'em, once, when they got home from school.

"Fuck you, daddy dearest," I say, addressing my own. Is he dead, too? I hope so. What a douche nozzle.

I read the papers. Then I feel very cold and read them again. I go back upstairs, still holding the papers, and get my phone out of my jeans.

"Hello."

"Ring ring what the _fuck_ , Braginski?"

"This number is for important, work-related calls—"

"This is work-related. I got your fax. What the hell? How old is this kid? Twelve?"

"He is thirteen."

"Oh, well, hoo-fucking-ray, that makes everything hunky dory, _ja_? Christ's sake. What are you doing asking me to kill a kid?"

The paper is rustling noisily. My hands are shaking. I put the paper down on my unmade bed. It stares at me. I flip the stack over so I can't see the words. My rib cage feels haunted.

"I suspect you would feel uncertainty at first. This is understandable. Society has ingrained upon us that children and women's lives are worth more than those of common men. But you have no problems in the past killing women."

'Course not. Tits don't make any difference to me, unless you count them as something nice to look at while I kill the bitch. "Women ain't kids."

" _Da._ But is there a difference? What holds you back?"

He's getting into my head, like an alien. Burrowing through my ear. Twisting my synapses. 'Get outta my head." Fuck, I shouldn't have said that. Now he'll know he's getting to me. Shit shit shit. "Kids have their whole lives ahead. They ain't ruined yet."

"Well, when they are dead, they no longer have their lives ahead, and they are very ruined. So there should be no problem once you kill him."

"Come the fuck on." I knew he was heartless, but I thought everybody had a limit somewhere. The fuck is his? Who doesn't he kill? Dead people?

"Do not get me wrong. I do not wish to kill any other young children, nor would I accept money from someone looking for such a job to be done."

I go still. "Then who wants the kid dead?"

"I do. He was under my control until a few days ago, when he decided to run away. He is in hiding, but I do not have an exact location, only guesses. I do know he will not go to the police. He knows I have eyes on all the local stations, and he will be too afraid to be out of cover that long, anyway. He is a cowardly one. I was surprised when he ran off. And disappointed."

He sounds pretty damn disinterested to me. "What did you have a man that young for?"

"For the odd time I require a youthful, friendly face to manipulate or fool someone with. And for personal endeavors."

"You fucked this kid?" No secret about my boss's sexuality—he's had tons of dude prostitutes offed before, for tons of reasons—but there was never any mention of fucking kids. Jesus H. Christ. This isn't just some drug dealing nobody, this is a _kid_. An abused kid.

Fuck me.

"That is none of your concern," my boss replies, colder than usual, which is all the answer I need. "You will do the job. The timing is up to you, but have it done before this month is out. It should not take longer than that."

It's only the second day of August. No job has ever taken a whole month. If it was an adult, it'd take two weeks at the very most. But this? Fuckin' _this_?

"Do you agree to the job, Gilbert?"

He calls me by my name, like that makes this okay. Like that makes us good buddies rubbing shoulders at the fucking social club, _oh pass the salt what cute umbrellas in the lemonade kill a fucking kid WHAT THE SHIT._

"Yeah," I say, because that is the easiest thing to do right now. An empty agreement.

"Good. You will call when it begins, and we will discuss payment when it is done." He hangs up.

I throw my phone at the mattress with enough force that it bounces off and sends the stack of papers to the floor, too. I crouch to pick up the phone, my bare chest burning, but then I freeze. The top paper has landed face-up, and the cute, innocent-looking boy stares up at me.

_Raivis Galante._

I press my knuckles into my eyelids, but I still see his face. "Fuck. Me."


	8. Chapter 8

_ You know why I don't mess with kids. _

_ Nobody should mess with kids. _

_ I'm pretty goddamn fucked up, but I'm not that fucked up. _

_ What would my brother think? _


	9. Chapter 9

**ARTHUR**

The next morning I wake up to the shocking, tugging, lustful pleasure of Alfred sucking on my penis beneath the blankets.

I have never liked my penis. Ever since I became aware of it from a self-conscious point of view—around eleven years old, probably—I have despised it. I have the usual complaint of length; it's an inch and a half shorter than Alfred's. It isn't circumcised, and it looks like some kind of grumpy worm, the way the skin moves along it, stretching, covering up to the tip—it disgusts me. Alfred's is so beautiful, elegant and bare-headed and perfectly smooth. He could be a pornstar, really, even though he would never do something like that. But my body is all unattractive. Everything is too big (eyebrows, nipples) or too small (penis, general musculature) or otherwise just homely. Alfred is handsome. He deserves so much better than me.

But when he's pleasuring me, showing me that he loves me, that he loves this body I'm in. . .

When we first met, it was fine.

Recently, it's been uncomfortable.

And today, after what he said last night, I can't take it.

"Stop," I say, pushing on Alfred's shoulders. "Stop it, Alfred. _Stop._ "

Alfred lifts his head, moving the blanket back so he can look at me. His brow is furrowed, his blue eyes confused and almost hurt, which kills me.

"What's wrong?" Alfred asks. "Are you hurt? Are you . . ." He sits up, the blanket falling down around his hips, so I can see his stirring erection, his tanned torso. "You've been . . . off, lately. There's something wrong in your eyes, has been for weeks. I don't wanna see you hurting. I love you. So, please, Artie. Tell me. What's wrong?"

I stare at him, at this man above me. My American husband, golden-haired and lit like a deity from the window sunlight. Anyone else would be happy with this life. Why am I so ungrateful? So incapable of accepting my fate, even when it's a happy one?

"I . . ." The way his blue eyes get so filled with hope when I start to speak. It hurts, doing this to him. I don't deserve to put myself first, but I have to.

"I don't feel comfortable," I force out.

Alfred stares at me. "Comfortable with what? With me?"

"No." I sigh; it feels as though he's kneeling on my chest instead of between my spread legs. "With . . . me."

Alfred's brow furrows deeper. He doesn't understand. How could he? Only one with a dark past of their own can begin to understand the shadows of another.

"Is this about your eyebrows? I told you, they look fine, Artie. Better than having none at all, or a unibrow—"

"No." I sit up, my back against the headboard. "I don't—it's not about my eyebrows. It's about who I am. I don't want to be this person anymore. I'm not comfortable as who I am right now, Alfred. Alright? That's my problem. I don't want to exist like this anymore."

Alfred stares, and stares, uncomprehending. "Arthur," he says slowly, "are you telling me that you want to kill yourself?"

Softly, I reply, "If I stay like this for another year, I . . . I might kill myself. Yes."

Alfred cups my face in his hands, brow low on his eyes. "Stop saying that. What does 'like this' mean? Staying 'like this'? Not wanting to exist as yourself, as the person you are . . . what does that mean? Who else would you be?"

I lean into the warmth of his touch, and I say the words slowly, quietly, for the first time ever to myself and to someone else:

"I want . . . to be . . . a lady."

Alfred's grip on my face tightens, fingers rough on my jaw. His gaze is like ice. "What the hell," he says, low and hard, "are you trying to do to me? Why are you screwing with me? I asked you what's wrong, and now you're joking with me about this goddamn trannie bullshit—"

"It's _not_ bullshit," I snap, fury hot in my chest. I pull on Alfred's arms, trying to make him stop touching me.

Alfred jerks away, stands and starts pulling his clothes on. Both our erections are gone. His progress through our bedroom is angry, intense. "If you think you're going to tear this marriage apart because you have mental issues, you're even more fucked in the head than I'm thinking right now. I'm going out to find you some therapist to talk to. They'll show you how stupid and twisted this is." He stops in the doorway, looks back at me as he flips down the collar of his shirt. "You're a man, Arthur Kirkland Jones. You were born a man, and you'll die a man. I love you _because_ you're a man. You're going to go off, change yourself into someone else? That will make you a stranger. You will be a murderer, some demented bitch of a false woman who killed my wonderful husband. _I will never forgive you._ "

I stare, open-mouthed. I can do nothing else.

Alfred stabs me with his eyes one last time before turning, storming out of the house. I hear the front door slam and his sports car snarling down the driveway.

I am faced, once my astonishment fades, with two options.

Stay, and be forced into therapy, fall into an even deeper depression, and deal with this new version of my husband, he who hates what he does not understand.

Or. . .

Fifteen minutes later, I am packed. I take a taxi to the farthest stop possible, and ride the bus out of town. I don't lift my gaze from my lap; I want to be lost, lost and unable to be found. I don't speak to anyone. I don't do anything but sit still, using Alfred's money to take me away, away, away.

"Sir? Excuse me, but this is the last stop."

I blink blearily; I hadn't realized I'd fallen asleep. I feel like I've only nodded off for a second, but the bus windows are dark with night. The bus driver is addressing me from the driver's seat, eyes polite but impatient in the overhead mirror. He wants me off, so he can go home. I can't blame him. I only wish I could do the same.

Alfred is there. Alfred has become the enemy. We must stay away from him at all costs. Away, away.

I stand stiffly, holding my suitcase, and exit the bus. The driver tells me goodnight. I repeat it, feeling hollow. But only when the bus drives away do I truly realize my mistake. It's a dark, cloudy night, and I wouldn't recognize this place even if it was day. I turn slowly, fear rising in my chest. I am alone . . . but I suppose being alone is better than being found by—

Suddenly, I'm blinded by headlights. Terror crashes like lightning. The silhouette of a broad-shouldered man appears, and hestartstowardme.

I drop my bag and run.


	10. Chapter 10

_It was always a silhouette that scared me._

_The man, that night._

_And the man, the nights years ago, at home, in the bedroom doorway._

_Except that man spoke to me._

_Whispering like the Devil._

_"Don't wake up your brothers."_


	11. Chapter 11

** GILBERT **

One of Ivan "Kill Kids" Braginski's guesses about Raivis's location is the storage field of a local cement plant. Notice, not storage _building_ , or storage _shed_ , but storage field. And that's literally what it is. A field with unmowed grass and a bunch of concrete shit sitting in it. This is a normal thing to find on the edge of the city. Once the suburban sprawl ends, the rural hickdom begins with gusto.

Truth be told though, I kinda dig the storage field. It has a nice apocalypse vibe to it, like the world forgot about this place, like time moved on without it. It's nice and quiet here at night, nobody around, not even a fence to keep nasty shit like me out. Sometimes being alone at night is lonely, but here it's peaceful.

Until I announce, "Alrighty, kid. If you're here, I'm giving ya the count of ten to come out without a fuss, like a good boy. I promise I'm not gonna hurt ya if you come over here. Honest to God."

Fuck God, but I am being honest. I'm not gonna hurt this kid if he comes out, or if I have to look for him, for that matter. Anything I wind up doing to Raivis will be as gentle and painless as possible.

Unlike what the Russian did to him.

Christ. I could puke.

"Okay, kid, I'm gonna have to look for ya. Don't run, or I'll have to chase ya, and I gotta tell ya, I hate cardio."

I pause a second longer, but there's still just silence, me and the moon and these solemn masses of concrete, like those big ol' stone guardian things you'd see in some movie with dragons or Greek gods. "Fuck yeah," I say under my breath as I duck down, checking all the cylinders big enough to fit a petite thirteen-year-old. "I'm a mighty Prussian warrior, defender of the moon gods, a knight of the night here to save the fuckin' day with my awesomeness."

The cement things hear this, I know they do, and I think they give me little nods of respect. I nod right back, 'cause it's only polite, and I'm a brute with manners.

Takes me an hour to check and recheck the field, just to make sure the kid isn't here and doing ninja moves to hide from me. But, unless he's seriously invisible, there's no kid here. Not even any _sign_ of a kid here, no little footprints, nothing.

"Well, scratch this one off the list." In the car, as I drive back to the city, I turn the interior light on and get the paper with suspected locations written on it. I scribble out the storage field's name with a red Sharpie and put the stuff back into the dash. Flicking the interior light off again, it takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but I see it—a guy standing on the side of the road, a suitcase in his hand and a fearful hunch to his shoulders.

I slow down, then stop in the middle of the road. We're between the suburbs and the urban shit, almost right on the line, actually. Unless he's some kinda wizard here to meet up with a vampire and other wacky dinner guests, he must be lost. I get out of the car; this night should be useful somehow. Jesus. He might be stoned or something, though, it occurs to me. Well, either he's sober and I can help him, or he's fucked up and I can tip him over and watch him roll around.

The guy turns. He squints, looking into the headlights, but I still see his eyes, the most beautiful green I've ever seen in a human being's face.

Then he looks at me, looks like he sees a ghost, drops his suitcase, and takes off running down the street.

Okay, this isn't what I expected, but I don't need him running into somebody's pool and drowning himself—if he isn't sober or sane—so I chase after him.

"Hey!" I shout, though not loud enough to wake up the suburbia assholes around. "Come back, man! Get your shit, at least!"

I guess I should have given this guy the same spiel I gave nonexistent Raivis. Jesus. Jumpy people freak me out. Like, chill the fuck out, alright? You're gonna get stabbed up the ass by life eventually, whether you deserve it or not, so there's no use worrying about it. Shit happens, deal with it, move on.

The guy stops, turns, but he's still ten feet away from me. I stop, too, let him have the distance. We stand and pant like dumbasses.

Then, he says, "I thought you were someone else."

"Holy fuck, you're British."

His eyebrows, thick and dark, lift. "Yes, and you're . . . German?"

" _Ja_." I thicken the accent, make it sound comical to loosen this guy up. "You got somebody after ya?"

He lifts his chin, suspicious. "Why do you ask?"

"Uh, probably 'cause you just ran from me and blamed it on thinkin' I was someone else. So, the someone else is worth running from. They after you?"

His eyes narrow, but his head lowers, as do his shoulders. "Yes, someone is after me. Sorry, I'm tired. I've been . . . on the run since this morning."

"Nothing more exhausting than paranoia," I say, and he nods like he's impressed that I've spelled out his situation. It's far from rare, lemme tell ya. "So I'm assuming you have no place to stay."

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "But I have money for a hotel, if you could give me a ride to one. Please."

"No, that ain't a good idea. Hotels have registries. Whoever's hunting you will check those first. Even if you give a fake name, a few hundred dollars' bribe will always get a description of ya, or even security cam footage. Hotels ain't safe. Plus, they cost, and your money'll run out faster than you think."

He stares at me, and I watch him fracture a little, his strength fraying like an old sweater. He's not putting on the bravery show that old Antonio was. This guy is just wearily and warily trying to push through a rough patch in his life. He's afraid, that's plain to see, but he's trying not to give a damn about the fear, because it gets in the way.

This guy is brave.

Naive as hell, but brave.

"I say fuck the hotel and come stay at my place," I tell him. "It's free, unrecorded, and safe."

He's too tired to argue, I can tell. "But . . . I don't know you. You could rape me, or worse—"

"Well, yeah, I _could_ , but I just said my place is safe, and it sure wouldn't be very safe if there were rapes and worse going on at all hours. Any sexual encounters at my house are completely consensual, promise. I even ask my dick before a rub if he'd like to get it on, and he always says _ja ja ja!_ But hey, there's no pressure. I can just leave ya in the street, if ya want. Just an offer. My good deed for the year."

To be honest, I have no fuck clue why I'm helping the Brit. Maybe it's the bravery. Or the loneliness. Or the green eyes.

Whatever our reasons, though, he comes with me, and I put his suitcase in the back of my car, and we drive in silence for a while.

"What's your name?" he asks, voice raspy with exhaustion.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt, at your service. I'm the awesomest guy you'll ever meet, Mr . . ."

". . . Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

"Nice to meet ya, Arthur."

Silence. When I glance over, I see the Brit's head resting against the window, lips parted slightly, eyes closed. Dead sleep.

"Well, Arthur," I whisper, moving my attention back to the road, "you're not the best at maintaining conversation, but you're pretty damn cute when you sleep."


	12. Chapter 12

_ My brother was always helping people. Protecting people. It was his job. _

_ My job is to hurt people. Kill people. _

_ Guess we balance each other out, huh? _


	13. Chapter 13

**ARTHUR**

I wake up on a pleather couch in a dark room. Nothing smells like Alfred's house. Nothing is the same, or familiar, but I'm too out of it to care. I've just slept, but I still feel exhausted. Why?

I find out when I move aside the curtains and the blackout blinds and see through a crack between the shutters outside—it's nighttime.

How is it still night? Oh, god, my head . . . I haven't felt this disoriented since my last hangover.

I wonder if Gilbert has any alcohol. Germans love beer, don't they?

 _No!_ I can't go back to drinking. What would Alfred think?

But there's no more Alfred. I don't have to care what he thinks. I'm out of his evil, loving clutches.

"No alcohol for breakfast," I mumble to myself, and stumble through the shadow until I find a staircase, up the stairs, a hallway, the door at the end?

Bingo, master bedroom. A queen size bed with one lonely lump in the middle of it. Odd that he's in the center of the bed. Even when Alfred's out of town, I can only manage to sleep on my side, the side I'm used to. So Gilbert's never had someone sharing his bed—or if he did, it was a long time ago.

"Excuse me," I say from the foot of the bed. "Gilbert? Mr. Bel . . . uh . . . Gilbert? Hello?"

No response, save for a little groan in his sleep. I wonder what he's dreaming about.

"Please don't jump up and kill me," I tell him. Then I reach out and start tapping his ankle through the blankets, harder each time—this used to work well on Alfred, who could sleep through the world ending, but a vaguely ticklish sensation would have him up in a second.

Doesn't have the same effect on Gilbert. He doesn't even lift his head as he says, voice thick with sleep, "The fuck?"

He doesn't sound angry. Not yet. "Gilbert, it's Arthur, the one you're helping out? I'm staying here?"

" _J_ _a, und_?" Is he too tired for English now?

"Well, I woke up and it's dark out, so I'm sort of confused about what day it is. I'm sorry for waking you, but it feels so strange . . ."

Before he can reply, his phone lights up and starts playing an alarm. He sits up, now, gets his phone from the floor beside the bed, and silences the alarm. He shows me the clock, it's a bit before midnight.

"You woke me up before my alarm did," he says, rubbing his eyes. He's not wearing a shirt, and I can't stop staring at his arms as the muscles in them flex. Alfred's body was smooth and firm, but Gilbert's is toned.

_Stop comparing. Don't be so weird._

"I don't know if that's awesome or not." Gilbert's hands drop to his lap. I can barely see him in the shadow; he's just a fuzzy grey thing in a world of fuzzy black things. "But I'll kill that confusion for ya. I sleep during the day and live at night. When we got back here yesternight, it was getting close to dawn, so I gave ya something to help ya sleep, even though you were pretty tired anyway. But now your sleep cycle will match up with mine easier. First time sleeping through day is always hardest."

"So I . . . I lost the whole day?" This feels so disheartening. A day of doing things—I don't know what—lost and never to be found.

"Uh, no. You're still awake today, it's just dark outside." Gilbert swings his legs over the side of the bed, and I see that they're bare, too. "Ya might wanna look away, unless you're interested in seeing my dick."

I turn around quickly, but something catches in my mind. "Wait—you gave me something for sleep? What?"

I hear him getting up, opening a door—probably the closet—and putting something on. "Eh, you know. It has no real name, it's just the sciencey term for it, I can never remember those. But it's totally harmless, don't worry. No side effects, except being a little muddled after."

"A little muddled? You _drugged_ me!" I whirl around, furious. He's wearing nothing but boxers. I think they have something written on them, but I can't see. "You said there'd be no raping! None that I can remember, is that it?"

He stares at me. Then he moves, and flicks on a lamp, which fills the room with a soft sepia light. Nothing is really lit up, but at least I can see better. And I can get my first good look at my so-called rescuer.

He's tall, broad shoulders, and his chest and abdomen show proof of exercise, as do his arms. But his face is where my attention lingers. His hair is light—not the platinum blond I thought it was last night, but ashen, colorless white. His eyes, squinting the slightest bit even with the gentleness of the brown lamp, are red. Not the bright scarlet of fresh blood, but the off, grayish, pinkish red of . . .

"Albinism," he says, making me realize how rude I'm being, just staring at him. "It's a bitch."

I try not to look directly at him. "I-I'm sorry—"

"Not your fault my chromosomes are fucked."

"Well, don't think I've gotten distracted. You said it was safe here—"

"And it is safe. Fuck me, I only drugged ya to make sleeping at the same time as me easier. Jesus. I thought you'd want company instead of just sittin' around while I sleep. Guess I shoulda saved myself the goddamn trouble." He walks around me, out to the hallway, so I follow him, and in the bathroom doorway he turns back to look down at me. "Look. You can be sure I didn't put my dick anywhere near ya, 'cause you're a dude, and I don't fuck dudes. I'm straight. Get me?"

Something deflates inside me, almost feels . . . disappointed, as insane as that is. What is wrong with me?

"Yes," I reply, lowering my gaze. "I understand. Sorry."

There's a pause. Then he says, "Don't worry about it. Trust is hard to come by these days, especially when you're a big strong awesome fucked-up albino German."

I have to stifle surprised laughter, but a giggle escapes before I can. I slap a hand over my mouth. "I-I wouldn't know!"

I look up at him timidly, but he's grinning at me.

"Don't be afraid to have a good time," he tells me. "Bet you're the kinda guy who likes a good laugh."

I can't even remember what I like, but the words come out before I can stop them, a whisper creeping out between my fingers, "Kind of girl, not guy."

Gilbert's eyebrows quirk slightly. He looks me up and down once, then shrugs with a friendly smile. "Kinda gal, then. Party girl, I bet. Don't worry, I'll loosen ya up. Anyway, I'm gonna shower. There's cereal and shit in the kitchen." He closes the bathroom door.

And I stand there in shock, trying to figure out how this stranger can give me the response I need, but my husband can be so, so wrong.


	14. Chapter 14

_ I was a party boy, before. In England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales. Wherever I went, I left a trail of empty bottles in my wake. _

_ I used to tell people I'd been wasted in every corner of Great Britain. _

_ This is obviously something I never told Alfred. _


	15. Chapter 15

**GILBERT**

"Well, Gilbert, what did we learn?" I ask myself as I rub conditioner into my hair (it keeps it soft, fuck you). "Don't make friends by drugging people. Check."

I bow my head, feel the warm water push my hair, watch the suds vanish down the drain. "Don't assume gender based on eyebrow size. Check."

I get myself good and soapy, then rinse. My dick is half-hard from the warmth and slippery soap, but I don't want to jack off right now. I want to see how Arthur is making out in my kitchen. Oh, making out in my kitchen sounds like fun . . . but with a guy?

 _Girl, not guy_ , Arthur said, in a small, soft voice I hadn't heard from him until then. In fact, there's really nothing masculine about Arthur Kirkland, now that I think about it. His body isn't like mine; it's delicate, lithe. Feminine.

I get out of the shower, start towelling off, and shake my head at myself in the mirror. First it was the girl of my dreams turned into a man, and now it's a green-eyed boy saying he wants to be a girl.

Who says lightning doesn't strike the same place twice?

Once I've put my face on and found some clean jeans-and-T-shirt (not hard, since yesternight was laundry) I head downstairs, where I find Arthur munching on some Lucky Charms at my kitchen table. He's not hard to see, because he has turned on every sepia lamp in my house.

"This place hasn't been this bright in almost a decade," I tell him, amused, as I get some protein powder out of the cupboard and the milk from the fridge.

Arthur glances around in alarm, like he hadn't realized the lights were on. "Oh—I can turn them off, if you'd rather—"

"Nah, it's what they're here for. Seeing shit with." I've gotten pretty good at living in darkness, but expecting the same from Arthur would be mean as hell. I shake up my breakfast and sit down with Arthur.

"There were no marshmallows in the box," he says, showing me his spoonful of nasty wheat shape whatevers.

"Yeah, I ate those out. Don't worry, I didn't spit on the rest, even though they fuckin' deserve it. Flavorless gross pieces of shit, they are."

Arthur arches one of his thick-as-all-hell eyebrows, amused. "I like them. The marshmallows are too sweet."

"The hell kinda alien are you?" I sip my vanilla protein. It tastes like vanilla protein. "Oh, no, wait. I getcha. You're, like, one of those stiff upper lip Englishmen who hate having fun. That's what those marshmallows taste like, ya know. Fun."

Arthur shakes his head. "They taste like too much concentrated corn syrup to me." He looks down at the cereal he's stirring, pensive. "I like having fun. I just don't really know how anymore."

I nod slowly. Fuck, this guy—girl?—is miserable, but why? None of my business, I suppose. Being nosy isn't very awesome. So I won't pry. Directly.

"Well, tell me something less depressing about yourself, Kirkland. How old are ya?"

"I'm twenty-seven. How old are you?"

"Damn, ya don't look a day over twenty." I take another swig of my protein shake. "Ugh, my age? That's pretty fuckin' depressing. But, fair's fair. I'm thirty-four."

He looks at me with wide eyes. "Really?"

"Yeah. Why, do I look older?" Christ, there's a scary thought.

"No, you look younger. Your skin is smoother than mine."

"Hell yeah, hiding from the sun for years really cuts down on a man's radiation levels. No beach weekends for me. No skin cancer, fingers crossed. My liver disease prospects ain't so good, though. I like a good drink."

Arthur nods. "I did, too. But I got sobered up. I was going downhill really fast, before I quit."

"Well, good for you, Kirkland. I'll try not to tempt ya back into sin." I smile at him. "So, just tell me now so I'll know to shut up about it. The girl thing. You open to talking about it?"

Arthur hesitates for a moment, then nods shyly. "Yes, I'd like to talk about it. I haven't really had time to consider it . . . I sort of only . . . realized it recently."

"Okay. Well, I ain't trained in anything, but I'm a pretty damn fine listener, so there's that."

"Well . . ." Arthur pushes his bowl of milky mush away from him and folds his arms on the tabletop. "I haven't felt . . . right in this body since I was little, and even that I can't really remember."

"So ya think you'll feel right with tits?"

He winces, gives me and exasperated look. "Yes, I think they'll help. But I'm less concerned with what I look like than what I feel like. I don't want to be Arthur anymore."

I shrug. "First step to changin' an identity is the name. You have any ideas?"

Arthur looks afraid, anxious, like he can't believe I'm even taking this seriously. "Um . . . I don't know. Like I said, I hadn't . . . thought about it. Um . . . Kate? Katelyn?"

I squint at him, then shake my head. "Nah, doesn't fit with ya."

"Well, I won't look like this once I have . . . surgery . . ." He stares off into the void, horrified. "Where will I go for that? I don't know anyone, or . . . oh, bloody hell . . ."

He's getting overwhelmed. He is about to freak out in my kitchen. Holy shit.

I get up, go over to him, take his hands in mine. He looks down at our twined fingers, then up at me, his emerald eyes glistening with unfallen tears.

"Don't worry about it, Miss Kirkland," I tell her, not him, with a smile as gentle as I can manage. "I know a surgeon who specializes in this kinda thing. He's an old friend of mine. He'll help ya. I'll ask him myself."

Disbelief pales Arthur's face, and then my own, because she is hugging me, her face buried in my shirt, tears dampening the cotton.

"Thank you," Arthur whispers. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me," I say, loosely returning the hug. "I already told ya, I'm the awesomest guy you'll ever meet."


	16. Chapter 16

_ Yeah, I told her you were my old friend. _

_ My old girlfriend turned guyfriend. _

_ World would be pretty fuck-boring place without people like us in it. Actually, when you think about it, the boring people cause all the problems. The straight. The cisgender. _

_ Nothing more dangerous than a mind stuck closed. _


	17. Chapter 17

** ARTHUR **

After breakfast, I have a shower, where I cry a second time about the misfortune of Alfred and the delight of Gilbert. Then I get dressed in clean clothes and find Gilbert lounging on my bed/couch, typing on his phone (the brightness turned down as low as possible).

"Hey, Kirky," he says without glancing at me. "I'm texting with that surgeon buddy of mine. He's up waiting for his daughter to get home from a party. Naughty sixteen-year-old, apparently. We've all been there."

I sit down on an ugly orange chair. It doesn't look soft, and it's not. The brown stripes in it are an even rougher material than the rest. "Did you ask about helping me?"

"No, not yet. I thought I should have ya here for that."

"Oh." I cross and recross my legs, despising the fleshy mass between my legs that renders this uncomfortable. Oh, please be able to help me. _Please_.

"My dearest Doctor Dominik," says Gilbert as he types with surprisingly deft thumbs, "I have a new friend who has the body of a man but wants the body of a woman. Can you help?"

Much less lewd than I anticipated, but I suppose he could have been tapping out something different than what he actually said. Watching him on his phone in this dark room at this time of night makes me realize something. "I never asked what you did for a living."

"Nope, ya never did." Gilbert doesn't look at me, and a second later his phone chimes, and he reads, " _You make very interesting friends. I'd love to help the latest one. Name and age?_ " He glances at me, for confirmation.

I nod, clear my throat. "Arthur Jones. Twenty-seven."

Gilbert's right eyebrow quirks a little at the surname, but he must realize Kirkland is my maiden name—a lovely term, I want to be that maiden—because he types it without question. A longer pause than before, then the chime. "Would that be the same Arthur Jones who's been reported missing?"

Oh, God. Alfred has police looking for me? Am I on the news? I must be, if the doctor knows about it; Alfred's family is so influential, why didn't I think this would happen? Alfred's love was so complete, very nearly obsessive. Possessive. He never got cross at me for looking at other men, but if other men looked at me? It was glares, threats, but never in a hateful way, always with that unnerving cheerful overtone that he'd gotten from his aristocratic upbringing. Never show negative feelings directly. Never insult plainly. Never come right out and attack someone.

I put my head into my hands, fighting a cry of anguish. So many mind games with these people. Life in Europe was terrible, but at least it was with commoners, people like me, people who are easy to understand (okay, so maybe not like me). At least there, a punch in the face was a punch in the face. Straightforward.

Alfred put up the image of a slightly dim, cheerful, American Dream boy-of-my-dreams, but I can see now that this was just a mask. I was lying to him, and he was lying right back to me. Go figure.

Gilbert is looking at me, so I let out the tangled swell of words inside my head in a raw, uneven voice. "What can I do? If I go to the hospital, they'll recognize me and send me back to him, and he'll put me in some conversion therapy until I lose my mind, and I'll kill himself. I swear I will. If I have to live the rest of my life as this person, this fucking disgrace, I will kill myself."

Gilbert stares, surprise plain. He sets his phone down, gaze never leaving me, and crosses his arms over his chest. "How about this," he says, voice calm, gentle even. "How about we make a deal to be honest from now on? No more secrets, and no judgment. Deal?"

It's only fair. He's my only hope, and he hasn't judged me so far. I reach out to shake his head with my own trembling fingers. "Deal."

"Alright. Good. So who are you running from?"

It startles me a little that he doesn't know, but I haven't told him yet. Everything is so jumbled. Every time I try to focus on one part of the situation, I lose track of all the rest. "My husband. Alfred Jones."

"Jesus. The rich kid guy Alfred Jones? Daddy stockbroker Alfred Jones?"

"Yes. How do you know about him?"

"My boss has done work for his father in the past. Well, not for. With." Gilbert presses a finger into his temple. "And this is where you ask what I do for a living and I tell ya and you freak out and run away and all kinds of bullshit happens." He throws up his hands. "I'm a hitman. People have a problem, they let my boss know, and I fix it. I scare people, or hurt them, or kill them, or all three. I put dead cats in mailboxes. I cut things off of people and give them to other people. It's violent as fuck and also I have a torture set-up in my basement."

My turn to stare at him. "Are . . . you joking?"

He picks up his phone again but doesn't look at it. He looks irritated. " _Nein_."

"Um . . . are you going to hurt me?"

"No. I got no reason to hurt you unless someone tells my boss they want you to be hurt."

"Do you have someone in your basement right now?"

"Nope, it's all freed up at the moment."

I'm chilled by how offhand he is about this. In truth, I can't believe he isn't kidding. My life feels more and more imaginary ever second. "You kill people." I nod slowly. "Well . . . alright."

Gilbert's brow furrows. "You're fine with it?"

"Well, no, killing people is wrong, and illegal, but . . . I'm a guest, and you're helping me, and . . . it's not my place to criticize you." I shrug. "And by the way you tell it, it seems like they aren't really good people."

"No," he says, "they're not good people. I've never killed someone who didn't have some kind of illegal or fucked-up shit going on."

I nod again. "Right. So. I'll, uh, not report you to the cops for being a murderer."

He kind of smiles. "And I'll not report _you_ to the cops for being not-missing. Why are you missing, anyway?"

I look away. "My husband is transphobic. He thinks I'm deranged. Perverted."

"Is he abusive?"

"No, not physically. Emotionally . . . yes, he is, recently. I guess I could try to go to a shelter . . ."

"No good. They only let ya stay a couple years, if that. Then you'll be out where he can get ya again, and I don't think he'll be too nice after all that time, if he was bad enough for you to leave now."

"I would haved stayed with him. But he loves Arthur, and I can't be Arthur anymore." A simple unendingly complicated situation.

Gilbert starts tapping at his phone. "Husband is an asshole, Arthur is staying here until things can be worked out. Not safe anywhere else. Can we do this privately?"

Barely a pause. Gilbert reads the last text silently, sends one off, and drops his phone on the couch beside him. "Dominik says we can do it at his clinic. He owns it, and he's head surgeon there. It's not a big hospital, just a tiny place, on the other side of the city. You've probably driven by it before. There are no signs out front; most people don't realize it's not just an apartment or something. It's a clinic especially for people like you. Only trans. No cis allowed."

A secret clinic. This place, a shadowy hidey hole. This man, my only friend, a killer. A hitman.

"Great," I said, forcing a smile. It feels easier than it did for Alfred, though. It feels lighter. "Sounds like heaven."

Gilbert chuckles. "Yup. Hallelujah."


	18. Chapter 18

_ Was I scared of him? _

_ At first, I was. A hitman? Who wouldn't be scared of that? _

_ But at the same time, I trusted him. I guess you could call that unhealthy, trusting someone while being scared of them, like falling in love with your captors or something. _

_ I don't think it was because I was already living in fear, of Alfred and of the transition, of the future. _

_ I think it was because I had nothing left to lose. _


	19. Chapter 19

** GILBERT **

"Do you mind if I ask why you're a hitman?"

"Free country, _ja_?" We're driving in my car, and I'm trying to decide which suspected Raivis location to check. It's a little chilly tonight (for midwest summer), and Arthur is wearing a stitched red hat with a pompom on the top, which is just about the cutest goddamn thing I've ever seen in my life.

"Well, why are you a hitman, Mr. Bel . . ." She blushes a bit and proceeds to completely butcher my name: "Belsmit?"

I grin at her generously. "Beilschmidt. I know, German is crazy. They were probably drunk when they came up with it. We do like our beer."

Arthur ducks her chin, self-deprecating. "What's the answer to the question?"

I'd think she was screwing with me, looking shy and cutting to the point like that at the same time. But I can tell she's genuine. Must not be used to having a real conversation, where she doesn't have to pretend. Ain't I a white knight, huh? Yeah. Not quite.

"Well, I didn't always hurt people. It wasn't like, I was a kid and they asked me what I wanted to be and I said, _A murderer!_ Nah. I was innocent once."

"Aren't we all," Arthur whispers, gaze on her lap. There's an ache to her voice that I want to ask about, but I know how it is with scars. When they're ready, they'll show themselves. Asking before that just picks the scab and gets blood everywhere.

"I grew up in Germany, on the edge of Berlin. It wasn't bad there. Warmer than here. Rougher, a lot of the time. But I liked it fine. It was home." I've said all this before. I've told Dominik this, in therapy sessions. This is easy. It's the next part that makes my chest feel tight. "Me and my brother always wanted to be soldiers in the army. He was better than me at just about everything, my little brother. Stronger, faster, smarter. He knew all his times tables, read books without pictures. He was the good boy. Our father was proud of him." I have to work to keep my voice from sounding bitter. My mouth tastes like almonds. Or acid. Or my hatred of my father.

Arthur glances at me. "Your mother wasn't proud?"

"She would've been. Died a couple months after she had Ludwig. She was small, weak. Bad lungs. Always white as a ghost. Maybe I got that from her." Shitty joke. "Yeah, it was just Dad after that. Papa, we called him. He loved Ludwig. He thought I was cursed."

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." Arthur's voice is softer now, pitying, but understanding, too. She must have a piece-of-cunt father as well. No shortage of those.

"No, I don't mind. Good to talk. Bottlin' shit up is how ya go nuts." I stop at a red light, put on my turn signal. _Tick-tock-tick-tock._ "They wouldn't let me in the army. Said my albinism was gonna get in the way of being a good soldier. Gotta be top-notch to kill people for Germany. They accepted Ludwig, of course. Our father was all proud. Threw a party. Told me to stay outside. So I did stay outside. I left."

"You ran away from home?" Arthur's eyes are round, her lips a pinkish O. She's like a little kid, engrossed in a bedtime story. Damn adorable.

"Yup, I got outta there. Went to Austria for a while, but there wasn't anything for me there. Or in Hungary." Tiny bit of a lie there. "But when I got to Russia, I found what I was looking for."

"What was that?" Gotta love a girl who helps pull your story along.

"Somebody who'd give me a chance," I reply, but that sounds too nice, so I try again. "Somebody who'd give me orders." That's better. "See, my brother was better at everything, _except_ killing. He couldn't stand watching people suffer. He didn't even like burning ants, or shooting squirrels with our BB guns. I liked that stuff. I liked causing harm. And I like doing it to people the most. It makes me feel good." Arthur looks kinda sick, so I wrap it up. "I started working for Ivan Braginski. He's a mob guy, mafia leader type. Pays a lot of bad guys to do a lot of bad things. Mostly his money comes from drugs, but he deals arms, too. Firepower. When he has a problem, like I said, he calls me. I solve his problems. He keeps me from being offed by God knows who wants to kill me. I've made a lot of enemies over the years. Fuck even knows who they all are. But the Russian keeps me hidden, from them and the cops, so long as I do what he says."

It ain't a half-bad arrangement, really. It's been enough for me so far. But now, Raivis Galante. A kid. I don't know what's gonna happen when I find him, but I have a seriously fuck-awful feeling about it.

But Arthur softens the anxious edges of me. Like beer, but more British.

"What happened to your brother?" Arthur asks, with a gentle hand on my shoulder. I can't feel her skin through my shirt and coat, but the pressure is there; light, but there. Contact. Connection.

"Killed in action. In a bus, actually, headed back to base. Bombed. IED. That's the story Papa gave." I spare Arthur the details of the last time I saw my family, how I watched my father weep over Ludwig's bloody, burned body. One dead on the outside, one dead on the inside. Both in tatters. And me, standing in the doorway of the hospital room, leaving without saying a word. "That was nine and a half years ago. I've just been a hitman since then. I bounce around countries every year, but I spend the majority of my time stateside. My boss exports a fuckton of drugs over here, and he has a hundred dealers in this state alone." Ninety-nine, now. RIP, Antonio.

Arthur keeps her hand on my shoulder, green eyes wide with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Gilbert. For Ludwig. Hopefully he's happy, wherever he ended up."

"Yeah." I glance over at him. "You believe in God? In heaven and angels?"

"No. There's too much evil in the world. Too much suffering. No benevolent god would ever let all this happen." Arthur makes a face like she tastes something sour. "Do you?"

"Hell no. I believe in myself, I don't need anyone else stealin' the limelight. What a showoff, that Jesus guy. Dying for our sins? Makes us all look like assholes. What a douche." I park the car at a little rest-stop place. We're in the middle of absolutely nowhere, miles outside the city. I can't believe Raivis would be out here.

_Is that why I'm looking here?_

Well, probably, yeah. Shut the fuck up, analytical voice in my head. Nobody asked you.

"What are we here for?" Arthur asks.

I get out of the car, lean down to speak through the window. "I'm not gonna lie to ya, 'cause we made a deal not to. Boss Man wants me to kill a thirteen-year-old kid he's been abusing."

Arthur goes still, looking horrified. "Abusing . . . how?"

"Physically, mentally." I nod, grim. Fuck stuff like this. Fuck stuff you can't joke about. "Sexually."

Arthur exhales slowly, then gets out of the car as well. "Is he here somewhere? In the woods?"

"I doubt it, but I gotta look in all the places the Russian told me to. I gotta do my job, or I'm fucked." I run a hand through my hair. "I ain't gonna hurt the kid. Believe me. I would never touch a kid. But I have to find him. He ain't safe, wherever he is."

Arthur's brow furrows. "Your boss doesn't live in Russia?"

"Not as much as I'd like. He's got big properties in America, Mexico. Italy. Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania. Germany. Guy's the fuckin' scourge of Europe. Well, one of 'em." Nothing more awkward than a German talking about bad guys in Europe. Thanks, Adolf. Prick. "He drags his favorite pets around when he moves from place to place. Bodyguards, people he fucks, me."

Notice how I'm always the odd one out. I don't mind much. People are only tolerable in small doses, anyway. Alcohol helps.

Arthur, walking beside me, looks nervous, so I tell her, "You're not gonna get tied up in all this, don't worry. I won't let that happen."

She looks up at me, a relieved sort of curiosity in those green eyes, face a pale circle in the silver light of the moon. "Why are you protecting me? Why are you being so kind to me?" Her eyes widen in brief terror. "I'm grateful, of course! Very grateful." Calm again, inquisitive. "But . . . why?"

I hesitate, for the first time in a long time. God, so this is what it feels like to worry what comes out of your mouth, huh? It's a weird feeling. Like my tongue is on a cliff edge and my words will fall out if I don't keep shit in check. Freaky.

"Because you're a nice person," I reply slowly. It seems like The Right Thing To Say, like in movies and after-school specials.

"But you barely know me." Her doubt isn't rude, but it's there, justifiably.

"Well . . ." This is like when I was first learning English, and I had to translate my thoughts from German in my head before I said them. But now I'm trying to translate emotion into words, and I don't know how. My brain and my heart speak different languages.

I turn to Arthur, raising my hands in a shrug. "I don't know. I just wanted to help you. You looked . . . brave when I first saw you. You _are_ brave. You left your husband, right? That's brave as hell. And your eyes are gorgeous and your lips ain't that bad, either." Did I say the last part out loud? So much for not fallin' over that cliff. "And call me crazy, but I think people should be able to be whatever they want to be, regardless of the bodies they were born in."

Arthur looks up at me, and for the first time, she really smiles. It isn't forced or mixed with shyness or fear. It's a genuine, warm, beautiful smile, and it reminds me of how she hugged me earlier, when she was crying, and how soft her body was, how I felt the way she moved, how it's been so long since I let myself get this close to someone. Without killing them, I mean.

"Thank you," she says. "I think so, too. We should be what we want to be."

"Well, then." I grin up toward the stars, spreading my arms out. "Let's be the fuckin' greatest."


	20. Chapter 20

_ I love that. How she turns me into a silly teenager, tryin' to be all deep and poetic. How she makes me feel so much lighter, a weight lifted off my shoulders. _

_ You made me feel this way, too. Once. When we were young and foolish. _

_ Well, I'm still plenty foolish. Youth you lose. Being a dumbass lasts forever. _


	21. Chapter 21

**ARTHUR**

I have a tiny bit of doubt in me over Gilbert's claim of not hurting children. How does he draw the line so easily? But I agree with him that a child roaming around without shelter isn't good, so with Gilbert I call, "Raivis! Please come out! We don't want to hurt you!"

Gilbert's voice is much stronger and carries much farther than mine. My voice has always been thin, easily drowned out by the bustle of crowded rooms. Not very masculine, but not the pretty, melodic voice I wish I had, either. Maybe I can train my voice to be less like the wind and more like the chimes.

Of course, my mind is trying to go to dark places. The fear from being in the woods at night adds to it, but mostly it's from hearing about this poor boy, raped by some Russian man. It's bringing forth endless memories I wish would stay in the back corners of my mind, where I won't have to see them.

Gilbert cups his hands around his mouth. "I promise, I don't wanna hurt ya! Come out, Raivis!" We stop walking, to listen, and squint through weak moonlight, scanning for any sign of movement.

_What's that—_

I gasp and grasp Gilbert's sleeve. "Look," I whisper, pointing. "There . . ."

The leafy branches of a fern rustle, then bow to let a little brown rabbit hop out. It stirs, feet tucked neatly beneath it, ears up, pricked for signs of danger. Its furry face isn't turned toward us, but it must see us. I wonder what it thinks of us. Noisy possible threats? He'd have run already, if he thought we were going to get him. Which is probably the case with Raivis Galante, as well, if he's actually here.

Gilbert gives the rabbit a little wave. "Hey there, little guy. Pretty cute."

"My brother would like it out here. My youngest brother. He always loved animals. He lives in Wales, now. I think he tends sheep." I remember how happy he always looked when stray cats wandered into our yard, or when a bird got stunned flying into a window. He always nursed them, fed them whatever we could spare (never much). He was the sweetest of us all. I wish he didn't hate me.

It's my fault. Arthur's fault. The person I used to be. The demon I let inside me. Every night . . .

_No. No bad thoughts. Think of something happy!_

"That reminds me of my imaginary friends," I say, glancing at Gilbert to see him raise an eyebrow at me. "I had lots, when I was young. One was a rabbit, with wings. Mint-colored. And one was a unicorn. And there was a little fairy . . ."

Gilbert looks down at me, smiling faintly. His eyes are too dark to really see in the moonlight, but he almost looks—fond?

"Sounds like a real party," he says. "I didn't have an imagination awesome enough to give me any imaginary friends."

"I guess I was just trying to get away from reality. My childhood wasn't the best." Oh, I shouldn't have said that. Now he'll ask me things. I step away from him, and the bunny vanishes with the quiet hiss of leaves on leaves. I cup my hands around my mouth. "Raivis! Raivis!"

Gilbert follows me, but doesn't shout. "How many brothers do you have?"

 _Too many._ "One in Wales, one in Scotland, two in Ireland." I reach up to snag a leaf from a branch, fold it into damp pleats. "None of us have two parents alike, it's a nightmare. Stepfathers and stepmothers, some we don't even know. We were all raised by my mother and Alistair's father. I'm the oldest. Alistair came second."

Gilbert gives an impressed whistle. "Jesus. At least you all got to stay together, _ja_?"

It would have been nice, yes. If Alistair's father wasn't part of the equation. "It didn't last long. I left when I was sixteen. I met with Alistair in Glasgow when I was nineteen, but I got really drunk . . . I can't even remember it now. I was alone from then on. An alcoholic. A waste."

I pause, but Gilbert doesn't say anything, and I'm too afraid to look back and see that he agrees with me, so after a moment of uncertainty I push on. It feels like it wants to be said. Like it needs to be.

"None of my brothers have stayed in contact with me. Well, I haven't with them, I guess. They all hate me for leaving, I know they do. But . . . I had to go." I rip the leaf to shreds and let them fall to the ground. My hands are wet with juice. They smell strong, more like leaf than the leaf did. "I thought about killing myself back then, too. But I was a coward. So I drowned my head instead of shooting it."

Gilbert steps up beside me, gives me a sidelong look. "Do you want to tell me why?"

"My stepfather." The words come out of my mouth sharply, like a knife forced between my lips, cutting the edges because it's too wide. It makes me tear up, but I don't let them fall. It's almost a relief, how much terrible, black stuff comes through by just saying those two words. _MY STEPFATHER._ The truth of it immediately comes to mind. No further explanation is required.

I wonder if there are any good, kind stepfathers out there. Stranger things have happened, I suppose.

Gilbert inclines his head, hands in his pockets. "Like Raivis."

"Yes." It isn't a comfort to know I'm not the only child abuse case in the world. It's the opposite, actually. "But I was the oldest, so I just . . . I just thought it was my job. My burden to bear."

The tears are getting dangerous now.

Gilbert touches my chin, rough fingers but a gentle touch. "I'm sorry, Miss Kirkland. Our fathers were both dickheads. The world has too many fucking bastards in it. There's way too much blood. Everybody sees so much red, they can't tell how pure the white doves like you are."

What?

He turns away. "C'mon, let's get back to the car. He ain't out here." His tone lightens. "We gotta get to bed early tonight, your appointment is at two o'clock tomorrow. During the day. Haven't seen the sun in quite a while. Bet it missed me."

Grief and anxiety flare in my stomach. It feels like a cocktail of disaster. As I follow Gilbert back to the car, I look up at the night sky. I should feel happy that this is a step toward the transition, but I can't; anything could happen tomorrow, good or bad. I don't know where the odds are leaning at this point, but I know that the stars have never looked so sad.


	22. Chapter 22

_ I suppose you could call me a pessimist. Is there a difference between pessimism and realism? _

_ I think it all depends on the situation you're in. If things are bad, and you expect them to be bad, congratulations—you're a realist. _

_ If things are bad, and you expect them to be good, congratulations—you're delusional. _


	23. Chapter 23

** GILBERT **

Can I just say, _fuck_ the sun.

It's a big goddamn ball of radioactive heat floating up in our sky, and it burns skin and makes ya go blind and causes cancer and makes stinky stuff smell ten times worse. And the whole greenhouse effect thing. Poor polar bears, man.

Yeah, it keeps the earth warm enough to live on, but who gives a shit. Being alive ain't all it's cracked up to be. Way overhyped.

I have to wear a T-shirt over long sleeves, with my collar turned up over my neck, gloves on my hands, a cowboy hat, and sunglasses.

When Arthur sees me, she covers her smile with her fingers.

"Yes, I know, I look fuckin' unspeakably sexy," I say, holding up a hand. "No need to tell me. The attraction you feel is perfectly normal."

She giggles, a sound that goes right into my chest and tickles my heart. "You do, you look nice. I like the hat. You would make a good cowboy. A gunslinger."

I pick up a banana-gun from the fruit bowl—hell yeah I have a fruit bowl, I'm a fucking domestic housewife—and pose for Arthur. "Howdy pardner. Hows about y'all come with me down to the waterin' hole?"

"Watering hole?" she says through laughter, eyes going squinty in the corners.

The happiness on her face and the giggles make me grin and say, "Yessiree, I'm a cowboy on the African plains. I ride a zebra and herd gee-raffes all day long."

She takes the banana from me and wipes happy tears from her eyes. "Your Southern drawl sounds amazing with a German accent underneath."

"Thank you kindly, ma'am." I touched the brim of my hat and lead the way to my car as quickly as possible.

"Will you catch on fire?" she asks when we're driving. Well, when I'm driving and she's unpeeling her banana.

"Yup, I'll sizzle to nothing like a wet witch." I'm freaked out to be driving around during the day, when there are actually other people out here. My brain feels squishy from waking up at one-thirty PM, hours before my usual rising time, but driving with hundreds of potential accidents on all sides keeps me alert. "Feel free to turn on the radio, Miss Kirkland."

Arthur clicks it on curiously, and the disc I'd forgotten was in there starts to play. Paul McCartney sings about how he wants to tell us something he thinks we'll understand.

"Oh, you like the Beatles?" Arthur looks surprised. "I didn't know they were popular in Germany."

"I got into 'em in Russia, actually. Boss Man is a fan, if you can believe it, and he listened to them with me enough that I knew all the words. He was a pisspoor father figure at one point, but not anymore. We still both like the songs, though. One of the very fuck few things we have in common."

Ivan actually helped me out a lot, in the beginning. Gave me a place to stay, taught me some Russian and English (he's fluent in about whatever language you can think of), and showed me what I thought I knew from aborted army training: how to kill.

Yup, he helped me lose my murder virginity. We toasted vodka over the corpse of a prostitute. I got blood on the glass; there was dark crimson under my fingernails for days after that. _Cheers, da?_

You stop smelling blood eventually, but you always taste it, like copper, at the back of your throat. Some people think the smell and the taste are disgusting. Some pussies can't even stand the sight of blood. But I've never had trouble with it. I like everything about blood. It's bright red. Its scent is exciting.

_I wanna hold your hand, I wanna hold your hand._

"So . . . is that why you became a hitman for him?" Arthur asks, looking over at me. "Because he was like a father to you?"

"Mmm . . ." I check my blind spots twice; Jesus, where do these bicycles come from? "I guess, yeah. Maybe. I guess I thought if I was a hitman I could make believe I was a soldier, like I wanted to be. Back then I didn't really understand morals and stuff like that. I just figured if he was telling me to do something, it was on him. I was just another weapon in his hand."

Arthur makes a little thoughtful sound, but not a judgemental one. "Kind of like a dog. It's not the dog's fault if the owner teachers it to bite people. Not to call you a dog—"

I laugh at her panicked expression. "You can call me whatever you want, Kirkie. Most of the time it'd probably be an accurate title. And besides, dogs are great. Ludwig used to have three of 'em, he loved 'em. They didn't particularly care for me, but they weren't bad dogs. He was a good owner. Of course."

Arthur brightens at the mention of pets, looking fond like when she talked about her imaginary friends. Makes you wonder how someone with four brothers could be so lonely. "What happened to the dogs once he was gone?"

"Couldn't tell ya. I assume our father took care of them until they died, but I wouldn't put it past him to just take them to a shelter." I also wouldn't put it past him to put a bullet in their heads to save on the shelter fee, but I don't tell her that. "Did you have any dogs or cats when you were growing up?"

"No, none of our own, just whatever Dylan brought home to take care of for a while. Our stepfather never let him keep anything. He said we couldn't afford to feed anymore animals. You know, besides the kids." Arthur's looking down at her lap again, folding up the banana peel. I didn't see her eat it, but maybe that's for the better; driving and phallic activities should probably be kept as separate as possible.

"Did you want a pet?"

"Well . . . maybe. I wasn't ever really a dog or cat person, though. Dogs get too excited and cats tear things with their claws. But maybe something else, like a little hamster? Although they do get smelly, and changing their bedding is a bit of a chore. A fish? But they are sort of dull . . ." She's not looking at me while she goes through these options, she's tilting her head in consideration and perking up at every new possibility, talking to herself more than me. I can't stop smiling at it. She's so fucking cute. Too bad she didn't wear the pompom hat today.

"Sorry to interrupt, but we're here," I say, parking the car. The clinic doesn't have signs anywhere except for on the door, and it's so small you have to be about to open the thing before you can read the lettering. It's not like the abortion clinics around here, where you'll have protesters lining up all day, waving signs and thumping bibles. Nope, it's covert, tucked away between two apartment buildings with a parking lot only big enough to hold about five cars if they all hold their breath. You can tell just by looking at it that they don't get much business, like, at all. Dominik has told me that a lot of the time, he's the one putting money into it instead of taking it out. But he's got the money to burn; his family is rich as fuck in Hungary from their stock investments. All hail the Budapest Stock Exchange, _ja_? This clinic is a labor of love, so he claims. And hey, I believe him. He shoulda had a place like this when he transitioned. Woulda made it a hell of a lot easier on him.

Arthur's green eyes widen in fear, and I put a hand on her knee. The eyes flash to me, bright with anxiety.

"It'll be perfectly fine," I tell her. "There'll be two other people in there, max. The doc, and maybe a receptionist. Dominik's my best friend, I've known him for years. He wants to help."

She looks a little calmed, but the nervousness is still there. I know how she feels. The fear of the unknown can't be blamed.

I get out of the car, and a moment later, she does too. We hurry into the clinic, her keeping right beside me despite her shorter legs, and only when I close the door behind us do I realize she's holding my hand. Her eyes are huge, but I just give her what I hope is a reassuring smile and close the door with my free hand.

The inside of the clinic is a lot nicer than the outside. It's not fancy, though; it looks more like a therapy room than a hospital, which I guess is fair, since Dominik is practically a therapist too. He's a genius, the bastard. The walls are a soft, cheerful blue, and the seats are all cottony and squishy. Very casual, very cozy. A sign on the empty front desk says _Make Yourself at Home_ with a smiley face under it. I watch Arthur look over at the smiley face, and a tiny smile, just a twitch of pink lips, reflects on her own face.

"Hey, Dominik," I half-call, using Inside Voices like a good boy. "You gonna greet us or just make us rob the place?"

"You wouldn't." And there's the man of the hour, coming from a back room with the usual friendly vibes surrounding him. He's a few inches shorter than me, has his soft brown hair cut in a way best described as _comfy masculine_ , and is dressed in his now-typical khaki-chinos-and-pastel-dress-shirt way. He looks like a slightly delicate middle school social studies teacher.

And his eyes are, of course, green.

_Arthur's are prettier. More vibrant. Dominik's are pale, like olives. Arthur's are better._

"Good to see you, man," I say, performing a bro handshake with Dominik. "I like the hair. Very American businessman, _ja_? Very briefcase. And is that stubble I see?"

Dominik smiles and rubs his fingers over his jaw. His Hungarian accent is pretty faint these days. "Yes, yes it is. Testosterone injections are a thing of beauty."

Arthur peers up at us, startled. "Wait, you're—you were—?"

Dominik's eyes focus warmly on Arthur. "Yes, I was born as a woman. My parents named me Elizaveta, but my name is now Dominik. Doctor Dominik Héderváry." He holds out a hand. A small, feminine hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Jones."

"Ms. Kirkland, actually," I say quickly as Arthur shakes the hand with trembling fingers. "Maiden name."

Good ol' Dominik doesn't miss a beat. "Ah, I see. Ms. Kirkland, then. Please, come through here, into my office. I like to sort of combine my degrees when I work. I'm a certified surgeon and medical practitioner, but I also have a degree in psychology. I can't prescribe medicine to treat mental disorders, but I can evaluate my patients mentally before we do anything physically." He sits at his desk, smiling. "Basically, I'm a really good listener."

I can still hear the feminine intonations in his voice. I can still hear him—her, at that time—crying out my name as we fucked on her parents' poolside bar. Didn't work out, obviously. It wasn't _too_ much of a lie when I told Arthur there was nothing for me in Hungary. Just a brief something before an inevitable nothing.

But Dominik is a good friend to have. In this situation, anyway.

Arthur looks at me uncertainly, a shy little girl in the body of a British man. I sit down on a creamy couch, pat the cushion beside me. She joins me without meeting mine or Dominik's gaze. I glance at Dominik. "Think you could lower the lights in here? If it ain't too much trouble."

"Oh, yes, sure. I almost forgot. You do look great in that cowboy hat, though. And the cool shades." He gets up and rummages around in a closet, then sets down a sepia lamp and plugs it in. "There we go."

"Thanks, dollface." Once the light's off, I can remove my hat and sunglasses, but I keep the gloves on. They're leather, and I think they're pretty badass. I'd wear them when I kill people to make them even more badass, but they'd get covered in blood and then they'd be shitty. Mostly when fingerprints matter (not often) I wear latex gloves. Not very badass, but that's the true side of murder, kiddies. Not as sexy as it is in movies.

"So, Ms. Kirkland." Dominik smiles kindly. "Tell me your story."


	24. Chapter 24

_ Thanks for talking to us, doc. _

_ And for, y'know, being my friend, and all that. _

_ We really appreciate it. I really appreciate it. _

_ Hopefully . . . well. Hopefully everything will work out okay, ja? _

_ Fingers bloody crossed. _


	25. Chapter 25

**ARTHUR**

My story?

— _Yes, the journey you went on that made you end up here. Do you mind if I take notes?_

No . . . I don't mind. My story . . .

Thinking about it hurts. Going back there to that house. That bedroom. Those nights.

— _Take your time._

He came in.

— _Who did?_

My stepfather. Alistair's father. He was nice to the other boys—the stepfather was, I mean. He drank a lot, and sometimes he told us to leave him alone, but he played football with us in the yard sometimes too. He taught the twins how to tackle for a rugby ball. A pigskin, they called it. It made Dylan look sad. But Daddy liked Dylan a lot, he was the cutest, the baby.

Maybe he wanted to hurt Dylan, too.

But he didn't. He only ever did it to me. I know, because the others told me so. I asked if they ever had to go in Daddy's room, and they all said no.

— _Could you describe what your stepfather did to you?_

He showed me how to touch to make boys feel good. He made me rub him through his trousers, and then he said it feels better with a mouth, so he took his trousers off and I used my mouth. He tasted bitter and gross. Not nice. I didn't like it, but he looked happy, so I kept doing what he asked.

— _Did you ever tell anyone?_

No. He said I shouldn't, because it was our special secret. He said I could tell him anything, though. So I thought it was fair, because I told him my secret, too.

I wanted to be a princess.

He said it was bad that I wanted to be like a girl, and I would get in trouble for it if anyone knew. So we had secrets. I couldn't tell his, and he promised not to tell mine.

— _How did all of this make you feel at the time?_

Bad. I didn't like doing those things. They were horrible. They were disgusting and awful and I hate him I hate him I hate him.

— _It's alright. Here, have a tissue. You can stop if you want. Just go at your own pace, and know that you're safe. You're among friends._

He . . . He never told anyone about me, and I never told about him, until Gilbert and you. But I couldn't live like that. I couldn't stay and be . . . be raped every night. It made me lose sleep. I still have nightmares, of him. I couldn't eat, I was failing all my classes at school . . . it just felt like he was putting all of his darkness inside me. I was made of it, and I hated it. I hated me. I hated being who I was.

I was too scared to kill myself, so I left.

— _How old were you?_

Sixteen, when I left.

— _And when all this started?_

I was seven.

—. . . _Right. Thank you. Continue, whenever you're ready._

I left home, and I went from city to city in England. I don't know how I managed to scrape up enough money from odd jobs to buy so much alcohol. Well, I guess I know. I didn't buy much of it. Most of it I got off other people. I went to parties I wasn't invited to and got drunk there. I woke up in places I couldn't remember going to. I went to Scotland, then to Ireland, both parts, and to Wales. I hardly remember any of it.

— _How did you end up in America?_

Some men I was partying with in Dublin said they were going stateside and I should come with them. They were tourists, doing Europe, about to go home. I flew over with them and wound up in a little bar near the airport, and we were about to get into a fight over the cost of the plane ticket (which I could never afford to pay) when someone stepped up beside me. He was golden and beautiful and he had the nicest smile I'd ever seen. I was too drunk to remember what he said, but he paid for the ticket and took me home with him, and I was in his bed the next morning. He made me French toast and orange juice for breakfast. He was so nice. I loved him.

— _Would you still be with him, do you think, if he wasn't transphobic?_

I don't know . . . I guess so. I loved him, but . . . he was a cage. A comfortable, loving cage. He loved me, or so he claimed. I just don't know what was real and what wasn't.

— _He loved you? Before you came out as trans, you mean?_

Yes. He got angry at me when I told him I wanted to be a lady. He said I was killing Arthur by making myself into a woman. He called me a murderer.

— _He clearly does not understand anything about what transitioning means._

But he is right. I won't be Arthur. Arthur won't exist anymore. I don't want him to.

— _Right. And that is perfectly fine. Some people find a whole new identity that was hiding within them when they transition. Some stay mostly the same as they were before. Both are perfectly acceptable. Each case is different._

I feel bad. For . . . for taking his husband from him.

— _Well . . ._

"Can I say something, doc?"

— _Go right ahead, Gilbert._

"Thanks. I say, fuck Alfred Jones. If he can't see that Arthur is being replaced by a wonderful girl, and if he can't accept that this is who you are, then ya know what? You deserve a hell of a lot better for a husband, and it's his loss. Good goddamn riddance."

— _I have to agree with Gilbert._

I . . . I d-don't . . . know what to say . . .

— _Here, have another tissue. It's alright to cry. These will be emotional times. That's to be expected._

Th-thank you.

— _It's my job and pleasure, Ms. Kirkland. I would love to help you transition. Let's turn you into the woman you want to be, shall we?_

. . . A-alright.

— _Excellent._

"That's my girl."


	26. Chapter 26

The place is nicer than he thought it would be. He expected something dingier, or maybe more evil. More Gothic, like Dracula's castle. But really, the mansion he drives up to is just as stately and respectable as the one his parents live in.

There's a wrought iron gate, and a man standing in front of it. He walks to the side of the sports car, expressionless behind black sunglasses, like some kind of secret service agent. The accent is unmistakably Russian. "Who are you?"

"Alfred Jones. Here to see your boss."

"Yes. He is expecting you." The guard opens the gate, and Alfred drives up the long lane. When he reaches the front steps, two other guys come to greet him, both in leather jackets stretched tight over their muscular shoulders.

"I will park your car in Mr. Braginski's garage," says the nearest one. "It will not be harmed."

Alfred doesn't care too much about his car being harmed. He hands the guard his keys, then glances at the other big man.

"I will take you to Mr. Braginski. Come."

Alfred follows without a word. The floors are so polished they reflect him and the elegant chandeliers above. He feels dusty in comparison. They go past the main foyer, down a long hallway, and stop at a closed door, the cherrywood so coated in finish it looks glossier than a magazine photograph.

The guard knocks on the door two precise times. "Please wait here." Then he turns and abandons Alfred.

After a few minutes, the door opens, revealing a pale blond man adjusting his glasses. Not shades, but actual spectacles like the ones Alfred would be wearing, if not for his contacts.

"He's ready for you now," the guy says, avoiding Alfred's gaze as he hurries in the same direction the guard did. Alfred wonders at his accent. Not Russian. Estonian? He can't be sure.

Alfred takes a deep breath to steady himself, then steps inside the office. He half-expected the Russian to have his tall-backed chair turned around like a Bond villain, but no, Braginski is facing him, hands folded neatly on the desk, azure gaze unblinking on Alfred.

"Welcome," he says, accent so thick Alfred thinks he must do it on purpose. "You would like to sit?"

" _Would_ comes before _you_ ," Alfred corrects, sitting in a leather chair opposite Ivan.

Braginski's lips play at a self-deprecating smile, but his eyes are smirking, narrowed in a cunning sort of delight. He's pleased that Alfred has enough balls to correct Ivan Braginski's English grammar.

"Cigar?" The Russian holds one out to Alfred, who shakes his head politely. "It is too early for an American to drink, _da_?"

"Yes, I don't do much drinking before noon." Not since university. God, what a haven that campus had been. He misses school days dearly.

" _Da._ So. I have nothing else to offer you but a chance to speak." Ivan snips the end of the cigar, lights it with a match, and inhales, smoke curling around him like a dragon's breath. "How can I help you?"

Alfred tries to remember the lines he rehearsed earlier. "My husband, Arthur, is missing. I think he ran away, and I think he's going to make a big mistake. One that could really hurt him, and ruin our marriage. I want you to send someone to find him, and bring him back to me. Alive. Please." Manners can't hurt, right?

Braginski shakes his head slowly. "We do not do search and rescue. We do search and destroy." He gives a little shrug; he could be a guard himself with those huge shoulders. "If you want him killed or wounded, I could help then. Alive is not our job. Go to police for that."

Alfred feels his fate slipping away from him. He grips the armrests of his chair. "There must be something I can do. Please, Mr. Braginski. I'll do anything. I need Arthur back."

The Russian leans back in his chair, gaze calculating on Alfred as he sucks the cigar. Then, inexplicably, he says, "I have seen you before."

Alfred blinks. "Yes, you worked with my father years ago."

" _Da._ I went to his home. Nice place. I saw you, playing out in the front yard. You were a beautiful little boy." His lips curl upward slightly. "And you are a beautiful young man. Take off shirt."

Alfred feels a tiny trickle of fear inside his chest, like his heart is bleeding cold blood. "Mr. Br—"

"If you want help, take off shirt."

The words are firm, the voice so deep and commanding. Alfred's fingers are a little unsteady as he unbuttons his shirt. _This is for Arthur_ , he thinks through the fear. _For him, for my husband. The sooner I find him, the sooner he can get therapy and we can go back to normal. We can go on vacation, somewhere warm and pretty._

The shirt falls to the floor. The Russian's eyes trace the shape of Alfred's torso before he makes a minimal gesture with his cigar. "Pants off."

Alfred slowly stands up and unzips his pants. After a moment, they join his shirt on the floor, and he stands shivering in his white boxer briefs and American flag socks. Arthur got those for him, for Independence Day last year. _This is for him._

Braginski beckons him closer. There is a hunger in those azure eyes now. Alfred feels dread rising like bile as he steps around the other side of the desk. Ivan pushes his chair back a little, and Alfred can see the erection already straining at the other man's pants. Alfred can't keep his eyes from widening. _How big is it?! It looks huge! Oh, god—_

_For Arthur. For Arthur._

That's what Alfred tells himself as Ivan stands up and bends Alfred over his desk. As he spanks Alfred's skin raw. As he pushes inside without preparation or protection.

_For Arthur._

As Ivan sinks his teeth into Alfred's shoulder hard enough to draw blood. As Alfred's body fights against this agonizing intruder. As skin, flesh, tissue rips. As sobs set fire to his throat.

_For Arthur._

Eventually, Ivan gives a final thrust and pulls out of Alfred, who stands on shaky legs, a walking crime scene, dripping sweat, semen, blood.

For the briefest of seconds, he lets himself think, _I could go to the police._

A bullet to the head would be much, much easier.

Braginski buckles his belt and picks up his cigar again. He taps it gently with a fingertip, and some ash crumbles off, landing impotently on some papers atop his desk. The Russian takes a drag from the cigar and chuckles at Alfred, smoke oozing between his teeth.

"We will find your husband. It is a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Jones." He leaves without another glance at Alfred, trailing smoke in his wake.

Alfred limps over to his clothes, but jumps when he hears a voice. He glances up. It's the blond with the glasses.

"I'll show you where the bathroom is, so you can have a shower." He sounds weary. "Don't worry about covering up. Nobody will look. We've all been there before."

Alfred bleeds for a week.

_For Arthur._


	27. Chapter 27

**GILBERT**

That night—my sleep cycle is _soooo_ fucked—I stand in my bedroom, unsure what I should be doing. Arthur was exhausted after the clinic trip, so she's been asleep on the couch since we got home this afternoon. She hasn't eaten anything but that banana earlier; she'll be starving when she wakes up.

I head downstairs as quietly as a tall albino German can. I'm thinking about Arthur's story, all the stuff she told Dominik, and me. I wish I'd been there when that stepfather hurt her. Then I could rip his small intestine out and strangle him with it.

In the kitchen, I make Arthur a peanut butter sandwich. Then I make another one and eat it slowly, wandering into the living room. Arthur is curled into herself on the couch, tucked into the fetal position. I gave her a blanket (with a badass tiger on it) but it's pulled from her shoulders during sleep movements. I gently tug the blanket back up to her neck, then even gentlier (fuck you, English language) smooth down her hair where it's ruffled. It's so soft, that hair. Like a baby sheep's soul. It's starting to grow longer, past her ears. It'll be a layered bob soon. She'll look so pretty. Goddamn.

_Get your head on straight, Gilbert._

I almost jump out of my skin when my phone goes off, harmonicas and drums and Beatles. I cringe and answer it quick, blood pounding in my ears. On the couch, thankfully, Arthur stays sleeping. _Shhhh._

Creeping away from the couch, I say in a low voice, "Yeah, what?"

"How are you coming with the Raivis assignment?" Ivan's deep Russian accent is not what I want to hear right now.

"I'm coming." I'm tempted to make a phone sex joke, but something tells me not to. There's a weird dread in me, multiplying as my cellphone counts the seconds of the call.

"And you have no found him yet." He doesn't sound impressed, but he never sounds impressed.

"No, I ain't found him. But I'm lookin'. It'll get done. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

"I have another job for you, but if you do not have the mental resources for two undertakings, you do not have to take it."

The last thing I want right now is have another person to be hunting and worrying about. There's a tiny piece of my head that slathers at the idea— _oh yes, give me somebody to kill, yes, fuck, I'll make them bleed for you, yes_ —but I do my best to shut it up. Arthur is my priority. I'm finally helping someone. I'm being a good person.

Christ, I'm like those goddamn kittens on the internet. _I can has conscience?_

"No, I'm not really in the best mindset for another one. I'm gettin' tired. Think I'll take a vacation after this one." Not a paid vacation, as you can imagine. I end up with money where Braginski feels I need it. Money for food, money to fix up the house, money for alcohol. Never have to pay for weapons, though. The benefit of working for an arms dealer.

"I will give it to someone else, then."

My hackles raise at that one. He says that _someone else_ in a pretty loaded way. "Who else? One of the goons?"

"No. I have hired another like you. He will do it."

My dread is turning to anger now. There's a gasoline fire in my chest. "You replacin' me, Braginski?"

"Speak with respect, Gilbert, or you could be right. How do you know I have not always had others like you?"

Good goddamn question. "Ain't nobody like me."

"Mm. Perhaps." He doesn't agree one bit. Fucking asshole. "Find Raivis. If you do not, I have no reason to keep you in my employ."

"What the fuck?"

"Finding a child is not difficult, Gilbert. I did not think you would have this much trouble. How many places have you searched?"

 _Lie to him._ But my head is so out of it from sleeping and not sleeping, and I can't think more than two steps ahead. If I lie, what will happen? I can't think, and that's terrifying enough that I tell the truth.

"Y'know. A couple."

I hear him take a drag from a cigar. "Mm. As I suspect. Seems like you do not want to find the boy, _da_?"

 _Oh, Jesus, give me something to say to him._ "Well, ya gave me a month, and like I said, I'm tired. I'm takin' my time for a while."

"Mm."

"Enough with the mm, _ja_? Do you want something from me? I'll find the kid, and your new like-me-motherfucker guy will find . . . who's this new assignment?"

"Does it matter to you, if you are not doing the job?"

"Professional curiosity."

"If you say so. His name is Arthur Jones. Husband of Alfred Jones. He is to be found immediately."

My ears ring. The world muffles as if a grenade just went off in front of me. I feel like time has stopped.

"I have other calls to make, Gilbert. Find the boy." He hangs up.

I slowly slide my phone back into my pocket, and turn to look down at Arthur. She's still curled up, now with a hand close to her mouth as if she might start sucking on a thumb. I watch her side rise and fall as she breathes, her lips parted slightly, oblivious and vulnerable.

Somewhere, a dangerous man is looking for her.

I've never felt more afraid in my goddamn life.

I can't leave her alone. Even if this is the last place anyone would think to look, I can't. Anything could happen.

This is why I never let myself care for someone, since Elizaveta, since Ludwig. I care too much, and I can't keep people. They die, they become someone else. They leave me. It kills me.

Gently as possible, I slide my hands under Arthur—beneath her knees and around her shoulders. She's thin as a twig, probably from stress, so she's easy to carry up to my room. I lie down on my bed with her in my arms, and watch her turn her head, praying she won't wake up, hoping she will.

She makes a soft sound without opening her eyes and nuzzles her face into my shirt.

I let the back of my skull rest against the headboard and sigh quietly. This is the biggest mistake I could make. A hitman can't have a heart. I can't put my neck out for other people. It'll be slit.

I'll just have to hope that Arthur doesn't like me back. Then I can protect her and send her on her way once the coast is clear, and Braginski can take three months to slowly kill me.

That's my best-case scenario.

Fuckin' peachy, ain't it?


	28. Chapter 28

The nights aren't much colder than the days, but they're a lot scarier. He knows why, because it's dark. Because he can't see. Things are different in the dark, he believes this. He doesn't believe in God, like Eduard did. He used to pray with him, though, each night before bed. They prayed in English, in Russian, in Latvian and Estonian. Any language they could grasp enough to ask, please, for help.

"We may as well ask God for help out of this hellhole," Eduard said, when Raivis asked him why he prayed. "No one else is going to help. What chance do we have? We need all the luck we can get."

Eduard may just be the least cheerful person Raivis has ever met, but despite the pessimism, he still managed to be kind, and to have a strange, almost paradoxical hope. Raivis knows Eduard would never admit to it, but there is no denying—those blue eyes, behind their spectacles, held a longing. Bitterly poignant in its hopelessness.

Raivis doesn't understand a lot of things, but he knows eyes. Eduard's are nice, even if they make Raivis feel sad sometimes. Mr. Braginski's are a pretty color, but they're like a ringmaster in a circus. They know everything, and they can be the tiger's eyes, too. They could eat you. The guards' eyes are all the same, little beady things that bounced off Raivis as if he was a piece of furniture. No one pitied him in Ivan's houses, except maybe Eduard—but of course, he had it just as bad, if not worse. Ivan hurt Raivis by being too big, but he remembers seeing Eduard through the crack in the door, the gag in his mouth, the chains . . .

There are no eyes out here, except the stars. Raivis looks out at them, through the dirty window. He's glad he found this hidey hole. It's sort of sad here, but better than Ivan's mansion. He just wishes Eduard was here.

_ Run,  _ Eduard said, that terrifying day.  _ Run and don't stop. Don't go to the police. Go where there are no people, and hide. What are you waiting for? Go! Now! _

Raivis did as Eduard said, but now he doesn't know what to do. He has his backpack, but it only has some apples and protein bars inside, but they're almost gone. His water bottles are both empty now, but he found a creek in the woods nearby last night, so he filled them up from that. He hopes the water won't make him sick. It tastes like rocks. Like nature.

Raivis listens to the quiet. The only sound is crickets singing to each other. He knows how they do that, their legs are violins. His legs are too tired to move, let alone sing. He folds his little hands and closes his eyes.

"Dear God," he whispers. "Hi. I'm sorry that it's late, but I figured you might not be real and all, so you wouldn't mind too much. And maybe it's a different time zone in heaven."

_ Do you get jet lag when you die? _

"Anyways, I just wanted to thank you if you helped me get away from Mr. Braginski. It was a nice gesture. Maybe you could also send someone nice to find me? Like an angel?" He remembers Eduard talking about them, how their hair sparkles in the sun and makes a holy aura glow around them. "That would be appreciated, please and thank you. Goodbye. Amen."

He listens now, opening his eyes and peering up at the stars. But there's nothing but the cricket music in response, so he curls up on his backpack bed and drifts to a fitful sleep.


	29. Chapter 29

**ARTHUR**

I wake up the next morning—real morning, with sunlight behind the blackout blinds—in Gilbert's bed, which is rather startling. I look around the room, because it feels very intimate, being in a man's bedroom like this—but he's not here. It's just me, in the middle of the bed. It's nice here, in this bed. Not like the one Alfred bought for us, designed specifically on either side for our respective . . . what are they called . . . spinal somethings. The bed cost thousands, just like everything else in the ridiculous house. That's the difference between here and there. There, it was the kind of life you would see in a magazine. In a commercial aimed at people who want to get rich quick. Here, though, life is real. It's flawed, strange, dirty, comfy. Terrifying. But it's all real. Anything could happen.

I get up and go have a shower. I try to shower as quickly as possible, so I don't have to see myself naked. I happen to glance downward while I'm scrubbing, and I see that penis, the pink fleshy thing that used to fill me with disgust. Now, as I look down at it, I feel and odd surprise. I'd forgotten it was there.

Happiness surges. One day, I'll look down and only see my legs, nothing between them but soft petals. Oh, how lovely that would be.

_ Soon, soon. Please, soon. _

I get dressed and go downstairs. Gilbert is nowhere to be found, but there is a peanut butter sandwich in clear film waiting on the table.  _ Did he make this for me? _ I'll have to thank him, when he turns up. I eat it and leave the plastic in the bin. I wait a few minutes more, then decide it's time for a tour of the Bel . . . Biels . . . of Gilbert's house.

_ I really need to have him write his name down for me sometime. _

I walk around the house, silent in my polka dot socks. There's the kitchen, the living room, a little porch before the door where Gilbert keeps a pair of winter boots and a big overcoat he would look very handsome in. Upstairs, there's just the bedroom, the bathroom, and a spare room. Tiny, with shelves of extra cereal, soup, shampoo. There are no decorations around the house, no pictures or anything. No sign of the personality of the guy who lives here. Maybe that's why he has so much personality, because he keeps it all inside him instead of painting it over his surroundings.

He's so nice, you would never think he was a hit man. But there's one part of the house I haven't seen yet. The place where his violence calls home.

The basement.

I go to the basement door, hidden in the back of the house, away from everything else. It has a lock on it, but I can see it locks from out here, not inside. Does he keep people down there when he isn't with them? Does he starve them, make them bleed out while he's running errands? Come back home with a loaf of bread and milk and go downstairs to check on his victim?

He's so nice, but he has another side to him, and it's evil.

Like Alfred.

Like my stepfather.

How do I surround myself with these nice/evil men? How does that happen?

Gilbert doesn't want to hurt me. Gilbert wants to help me. That's what I have to keep in mind.

_ Do you have proof? _

I can't think like that. If I do, I'll go mad. I'll end up dead in some back alley behind a bar. Or dead, bleeding from the wrists in Alfred's bathtub.

_ Oh, please let Gilbert be a real miracle, not an awful one like Alfred. Please, God or whoever else. Let me have one more chance. _

I bury my fear and open the basement door. It doesn't have the basement smell I'm used to, the cold dampish concrete smell. This one just smells like paint and some metal, iron possibly, a rusty kind of scent.

I have no idea what to expect, but I'm surprised. Pleasantly surprised. There are no corpses or blood spatters or congealed organs. There's a counter with a sink on one wall, some chairs over in the corner (covered in tarps; I don't want to know why) and there is Gilbert, lying on the bench of a . . . well, I'm not sure what it's all called, but the thing he's lifting over his head is a barbell, and it looks really heavy. I watch his sepia-lamp-lit muscles flex and strain under the weight as he lowers, lifts, puffs out breath and sucks it in again, then puts the bar onto its resting place with a metal clang and sits up.

He is extremely shirtless. The lighting and sheen of sweat make his muscles look even better than normal. I feel something in my inner thighs, a quickening I've never experienced before. Looking at him makes me feel breathless, even though he's the one panting.

"Hey, Kirkie," he says, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He leans to one side, still straddling the bench, and picks up a glass of water, which he drains in one go. "Sleep okay?"

"Very well, thank you." I'm working on my voice, trying to make it lighter without just whispering or sounding whiney. "Why was I in your bed?"

"You, uh, seemed kinda cramped on the couch, so I thought maybe you'd be more comfy in the bed. That couch is too small to be a bed. You can have mine whenever you want."

I smile faintly. "Thank you, Gilbert. But . . . you don't mind sharing?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Who, me? Mind sharing? Hell no, little lady. I'm the best sharer in the whole world. Didn't I tell ya, I'm the awesomest guy you'll ever meet? An awesome guy is always willing to share. It'd be my pleasure. So long as you don't mind sharing, too."

Do I mind sleeping with him? No, not in the slightest. All I can think about now is how nice it would be to touch his abdomen, rest my cheek against his chest, listen to his heart thump under my ear.

Well, maybe after he showers.

Or maybe  _ while _ he showers . . .

"I wouldn't mind sharing," I tell him, smiling wider this time. "It's easier to sleep when someone is next to you. And you make me feel safe already, so I won't be afraid at all, if we slept together." My heart jumps into my throat, and my cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Oh, I mean—sleep beside each other. Not together. I mean . . ."

Gilbert chuckles. "Relax, sweetheart. I know what you mean."

I'm comforted by the warmth of his reddish gaze, but I have to look away from it. My eyes go to the tarp-covered chairs in the corner. "What do you do down here?"

The friendliness in the air fades. Gilbert's voice gets a little dark. "Bad things. Do you really wanna know?"

I do, and I don't. I want to be honest with me, but I don't want to be afraid of him. What if he tells me about this dark side of him, and it ruins the light side? What if . . .

No. He is who he is. If I can't accept him for it, that's my fault, not his. Right, Alfred?

I turn to look at Gilbert and nod, trying to be brave. "Yes, Tell me. I told you about the demon in me. Now tell me yours. I'm ready."

Gilbert stands up and slowly steps toward me, until he's less than a foot away. He smells like man, like hard work, and a bit like toothpaste. His brow is low on his eyes, very reluctant. "Promise . . ." He stops, then rushes on, "I know they say that bullshit about loving someone means letting them go, but . . . fuck. Just promise you'll stay with me until it's safe for you to go. Okay? You can hate me and spit at me, whatever, but promise you'll let me keep you safe."

He's so serious, almost desperate, that I meet his gaze. "Yes, of course. I promise. I'll stay with you, Gilbert."

He looks down at me, and for a second I think he might tear up. Then he nods. "Alright. Well, then. Lemme take ya into the fucked-up world of Gilbert 'The Prussian' Beilschmidt."


	30. Chapter 30

He knocks on the office door.

"Come in."

The place is slowly becoming familiar. The smell of cigar smoke and the sound of that deep Russian accent, like coffee grounds and black ice. He misses his home, but he doesn't dwell on it. No point. The only way to keep what he loves safe is to stay far, far away from it. He doesn't dwell on that, either. Life is a misery. Fold your feelings neatly, put them in your pocket, and get on with it.

Braginski looks up from paperwork, smiling around his cigar. "Ah, Mr. Oxenstierna. How was your flight?"

Berwald inclines his head slightly.

Braginski nods as if he has received a thought-provoking response. " _Da_. Good. I'm glad you have arrived on time. I have two jobs for you. Three, actually, if you wish to take on another so soon."

Berwald knows better than to take this as politeness. It's a test. If he shows that he would prefer not to do work, he will be punished. He's not sure if it will be direct—physical pain—or indirect—psychological torment—but he doesn't want either. He wants to work for Braginski until he has settled his debt, then go home and lead a peaceful life.

That is the plan. God only knows what will really happen, but inevitably it will be different than how Berwald wishes it to go. That is life. Fold your feelings neatly, etc.

"I will do what you tell me to do," he says. His voice does not roll like Ivan's, but it is deeper. Rougher. If the Russian is a lion, Berwald is a wolf. One may be stronger and bigger, but the other is more savage, more cunning.

Not forgetting, of course, that Berwald is just as tall as the huge Russian man he now works for.

Braginski nods again, puffing smoke. "Excellent. In that case." He pulls out a drawer, drops a stack of papers on the desk with a loud slap. "Those two are your priority. I want them both brought to me."

This is slightly unexpected. Hired as a hit man, but being told to abduct people? Well, no one has said the victims won't be slaughtered once they're brought in. Berwald picks up the papers, and despite himself, his brow furrows. He looks at Ivan, but says nothing.

The Russian nods a third time. " _Da_ , he works for me. But he is no longer a good worker. He has become distracted by something. Lost interest in obeying me. I do not give people second chances. I gave one second chance, years ago, and it nearly cost me my life. I will not make that mistake again."

Berwald simply stares at him. He does not care about the justification of other people's actions. Whoever said it's the thought that counts was kidding themselves. It's the act that counts, and actions speak for themselves.

"Bring Gilbert Beilschmidt and Arthur Jones to me. Do not harm Arthur." Braginski inhales deeply on his cigar, looking at Berwald.

Berwald looks back.

The cigar burns.

The silence draws on long enough that Berwald eventually asks, "And Gilbert?"

Ivan smiles bitterly, clearly not pleased with the result of his minuscule powerplay. "So long as his heart still beats, I don't give a fuck what you do to Gilbert."

Berwald nods. "Yes, sir." As he walks out, he wonders if the Russian believes his own words. But he doesn't dwell on it.

Life is a misery, after all.


	31. Chapter 31

**GILBERT**

Her first question is pretty obvious. "Why do you call yourself The Prussian? What does that mean?"

I pat my chest down with a small towel (yes, I have different sized towels, they're useful, goddamn it). "How much do you know about West European history?"

She blinks, sheepish. "Um. I know all the words to God Save the Queen."

I laugh way too hard, then say, "Well, that's a start. Truth be told, I know jackshit about history, too. Except for Prussia. I got kinda obsessed with Prussia when I got hired by Braginski. He has this huge-ass library in his mansion in Russia, and most of i is history books. When I had downtime, I wound up in there. I saw one the there about Prussia and I said well what the hell is that? And, y'know, a sign sayin' _Fifty Hours Later._ "

She giggles at my horrible impersonation of the narrator in SpongeBob. "I didn't think you were someone who would like reading."

I shrug, grinning, and let the towel hang around my neck. "I got all kinds of hidden depths. Or, y'know, whatever. Hidden something. I'm an ocean of possibilities."

Actually, I kinda am like the ocean. Hard to tell what's inside me, from the outside. I can be lots of fun, sunny days at the beach (not if you're albino, of course). Or I can kill ya, if you don't know what you're doing. How many people drown in a year? A good chunk, I'd wager. Most of 'em accidental. Except the ones I've actually done. Those were all on purpose.

"Well, Miss Kirkland, I won't bore ya with all the history shit, but basically Prussia was a big area in Northern Europe that had land in Germany and Poland. The Nazis pretty much got rid of it, and the Allies definitely did after they won the war. That's the less interesting Prussia." I can't keep from smiling; I'm a fuck-awful historian, but I love this shit, the idea of that lost place and those people there—and the soldiers I'm about to describe. "Ever heard of the Teutonic Knights?"

She's smiling faintly, and God help us—fondly at me. "Nope. Do tell."

"Well, to be as basic as possible, they were a bunch of Roman Catholic warriors. They were called Prussians after they defeated the old inhabitants of Prussia, back in the freakin' thirteenth century or some crazy shit like that. They were _awesome_. Picture big soldiers in white robes, with black crosses on the front, huge swords and shields, all the horses draped in white, flags held up above—running toward battle! Fuckin' awesome!"

Arthur giggles softly. "I love your enthusiasm, Gilbert. You would be a great knight. You're strong and brave and . . ." She stops, lips still forming the first syllable of a word, her eyes uncertain.

My smile fades. "And I'm good at killing people, right? _Ja_. Well, I guess this is why I wanted to be in the army. The feeling of rushing into a battle for freedom with my comrades in arms? Sign me the hell up, 'cause that just . . ." I want it, so much. I want to have my people surrounding me. I want a group to have my back and know I'll have theirs in return.

I turn away from Arthur. "Anyway. You wanted to know about torture methods, right? What I do to people?"

I can hear the stifled fear in her voice. "Yes."

God, she thinks I'm brave? She's the brave one. No question.

I exhale, then dive right in. "I stalk people first, so I can learn more about them. What their lives are like. If I need information from somebody, I can mention loved ones to make 'em more likely to speak. Then I go for 'em. Sometimes I kill 'em just at their place, if they live alone and away from nosy neighbors. Sometimes—only on occasion—I don't kill 'em, just beat the ever-loving shit outta them. But most times, they die. Usually, they die down here." I point to the chairs by the counter, then walk over and pull out the drawers. "In here, there's guns, knives, wire. I used to have some acid—the flesh-eating kind, not the rainbow trip kind—but I used all that up on a Polish guy I had in here once. What a goddamn douche bag he was." I open the cupboards. "Lots of rope, zip ties, bleach. God bless bleach, man." Not that it gets rid of evidence very well, but I don't need to worry about that down here. "The walls are soundproofed. Boss Man let me pimp the place out."

Finally, I turn to face Arthur. "I've cut off fingers and ears and tongues. I've strangled people while looking them in the eye."

Arthur looks at the blades, at the objects of murder. She looks around my basement, the torture chamber/rec room any self-respecting serial killer would scoff at. And then, slowly but surely, she turns to look at me. For a millisecond, she almost smiles.

Then her face contorts with terror and she screams. "Gilbertbehindyou!"

All I have time to do is breathe in half a breath before an arm is wrapped around my neck, jammed against my throat, cutting off my air.

Someone strong is behind me, in my house, attacking. Arthur is in here. Arthur is in danger.

I don't think of battle strategies and fighting moves.

I flip my fucking lid.


	32. Chapter 32

Berwald is neither weak nor an unskilled killer. This is obvious, since Ivan Braginski hired him; the only weak people Ivan deals with are those he kills, fucks, or both. Nonetheless, as soon as Berwald breaks soundlessly into Gilbert's house and begins choking him from behind, he realizes he has made a mistake.

Well, not quite a mistake. A miscalculation.

He had thought Gilbert would fight him with the cold, brutal skill of a trained hit man—one with more experience than Berwald has. This turns out to be wrong.

Gilbert fights like a rabid tiger.

The German lashes out, but backward, toward Berwald. His hands go for his face, fingers digging for his eyes, and his legs both kick at Berwald. The weight of Gilbert falling down pulls overwhelmed Berwald to the floor as well, and his hold on Gilbert's neck weakens as he wrenches his head back from fingers very nearly stabbing out his eyes.

Gilbert is on him immediately, straddling him and wildly punching his head. Berwald takes a blow to his cheek and another to his mouth before he throws his arms up, blocking more punches. The sudden brutality of this, the submission, nearly takes Berwald's breath away, but he cannot afford to hesitate. Gilbert is relentless. So Berwald reaches upward, latching his hands around Gilbert's throat.

The albino snarls like the beast he is, red eyes feral, and strangles Berwald right back. The pair of them hold each other by the throats, locked together, eyes bulging with rage, until the tension rises to its peak—and Berwald lets go of Gilbert, reaches into his jacket, and plunges a blade into the German's abdomen.

Gilbert scrambles backward, hands on the hilt of the blade, a king impaled on a sword. "Fuck!" He bares his teeth at Berwald as they both stagger to their feet. "You stabbed my fuckin' stomach, you Nordic bitchcunt."

This gives Berwald a slight amount of pause. Nordic? Is this just an assumption based on his blond hair and blue eyes, his Scandinavian breed of frigid features? Or does Gilbert actually know who he is? Braginski could have mentioned him before . . . The world is small, and their world, smaller. Nothing is impossible.

Gilbert is breathing hard, but so is Berwald. They face each other, Berwald in his dark blue coat, Gilbert shirtless and bleeding, though he hasn't removed the knife. Berwald stares, a sharp, dark blade. Gilbert glares, a handful of shrapnel. Both deadly. One far more ragged than the other.

Arthur, Berwald knows, is cowering with the lifting bench behind him. He can hear the quiet whimpering coming from the British man, who is not to be harmed. Berwald curses the challenge set by Braginski. Fighting someone to kill them is simple—two people try to kill each other, one wins and the other dies. But fighting someone trying to kill you and having an order to bring them back alive? That puts Berwald at a disadvantage.

Every part of him is tense, alert. Waiting for Gilbert to make a move.

But he doesn't. Instead, he speaks. "Did Braginski fuckin' send you?"

Even if Berwald lies, Gilbert will know the answer. In fact, if he says nothing, Gilbert will know. So Berwald stays silent.

Gilbert shakes his head. "Fuckin' Soviet piece of shit." He glares at Berwald, brow low on his eyes, furious. "I won't shoot the messenger. You leave right now, we'll be square."

Berwald is admittedly tempted by this, honor among thieves. He knows he should not be. He tries to fold his feelings, but they snap. The whimpering man behind him is innocent, and doesn't deserve this. And it's entirely possible, Berwald realizes, that Gilbert doesn't deserve it, either.

_Don't do it._

"Why are you keeping Mr. Jones here?" Berwald asks, keeping his tone neutral.

Gilbert doesn't look away from Berwald, but his gaze softens a microscopic amount. "Because Alfred Jones, her husband, is trying to find Arthur. He'll hurt her if he does."

Berwald's brow furrows slightly. Gilbert's English must be good enough not to mistake pronouns. "Her?"

Gilbert holds his stomach. It will be seriously hurting now, but Berwald suspects he has a high tolerance for pain. If he doesn't, he's in the wrong business. "She's trans. Woman inside, man outside. Alfred thinks she's crazy. He wants her to be a man even though she isn't. Not that you probably understand what I'm even talking about."

Berwald wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His split lip is bleeding. "I know what you're talking about." He reaches into his jacket slowly, and Gilbert's shoulders square, expecting a gun, no doubt. Instead, Berwald holds out a picture. He knows what it looks like; he's memorized it. He's in it, sitting on the sofa in his home in Sweden. Sitting on his lap, holding the camera, is a smaller blond man, smiling in absolute delight. Tino. Blessed, beautiful, sweet Tino.

Gilbert looks at the photo, eyes softening another degree, and then back up at Berwald. "That your boytoy?"

Berwald carefully returns the picture to his jacket pocket. "My wife."

They regard each other, hit men, equals.

Gilbert takes a deep breath, winces at the pain in his stomach. "Looks like we're in the same situation, _ja_? We both got valuables that Braginski'll hurt if we let him. So what do you think about working together? Forget about this shit." He gestures to the knife still in his stomach. "I'll get it stitched, no problem. But can I trust you?"

Berwald tries to fold his feelings again. But he can't ignore this. This could be his way out, so much faster than the years he'd have to give Ivan otherwise. He has no allies, and neither does Gilbert. Berwald could even be in Gilbert's position right now, if things were switched, if Arthur was Tino. Wouldn't Berwald want Gilbert's help? Of course he would. And doesn't he want to return to Tino as soon as possible? Of course he does.

Berwald hesitates, then inclines his head. "I will work with you, Mr. Bielschmidt."

Gilbert nods, eyes dark with weary gratitude. " _Danke_ , Mr. Oxienstierna."

They exchange a small, respectful look. A _knowing_ look. Nothing is impossible.

"What," asks Berwald, in his slow, low way, "did you have in mind?"


	33. Chapter 33

**ARTHUR**

I can't believe I'm doing this.

I've never considered myself an overly anxious person, but I think I may just have a full-blown anxiety attack if my heart doesn't stop pounding soon.

"Shh, sweetheart," Gilbert whispers. We're in the back of Berwald Oxenstierna's car. This, apparently, means we would normally be at risk of horrible death, but now that Gilbert and Berwald have tenuously agreed to be allies, we're safe. For the moment. I think.

Oh, god. My heart races like a rabbit's. I almost feel lightheaded. Am I going to pass out now?

Gilbert holds my hand, squeezes my fingers with his gloved ones. His other hand is pressed to his side, where—beneath his shirt—he has bandages wound tight round his ribcage. He's paler than he normally is, but he claims that Berwald's knife only "poked" the upper part of his stomach, whatever the bloody hell that means. I saw the blood when he took the knife out, and it looked like more than a "poke" to me. But Gilbert says he's fine.

"What if something bad happens?" I whisper to Gilbert, failing to hide the fear in my voice.

"You do not need to whisper," Berwald says from the driver's seat. I've never heard a more emotionless voice than his, but it's not flat in a depressed way. It's strong. It reminds me of rock, of steel. Unforgiving. I'm filled again and again with a shock that he's in here with us, followed by relief that he's on our side.

Gilbert looks at me over his sunglasses. He isn't wearing his cowboy hat, so instead of looking silly, he looks . . . well, the best way to describe him is badass. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, Arthur. Alright?" His tone is so serious, so different from the brash and sarcastic stuff he normally says. That only makes me more afraid. Gilbert isn't being funny anymore. This isn't a joke. All three of us could be dead in the next twenty minutes.

Oh _god_.

"But something could happen," I say, because if I keep it inside I'll have a mental breakdown. "Something could happen, and you and Berwald could die, and I would be left, and I would have to go home with Alfred, and . . ."

I trail off, expecting Gilbert to hush me, to stop thinking about worse case scenarios like Alfred always used to. The golden boy, the optimist. _Turn that frown upside-down, Artie! If you think positive, everything will turn out just fine. Relax! No worries, be happy._ But Gilbert isn't like that. He holds my hand, looks at me, and says, "And what? What'll happen if you're with Alfred?"

It's not taunting, how he says it. He's encouraging me to go on. Why does he want to hear this? Then I realize, he wants me to let it out, vent my anxieties. So I do. "If I go back to Alfred, he'll be angry at me for leaving. He'll think I'm crazy and perverted, and he'll put me into therapy. I'll have to go to sessions with some transphobic therapist person, and they'll tell me I shouldn't accept who I am. He'll tell me wanting to be a lady is bad. And he'll blame it all on what my father did to me. But it wasn't that. It's who I am. It's who I am."

Gilbert smiles faintly with his pale lips, his dark red gaze full of love. That's what it is in there, I know it. Friendship and acceptance and fondness and love. _Romantic love, too?_ The thought should terrify me, but there are much scarier things happening right now; the thought of being in a relationship with Gilbert seems like a walk in the park. And maybe it would be nice. It's nice being his friend, and . . . when he was stabbed, I felt such a fear for him, fear that I would have to live without him . . . _do I love Gilbert?_

I push out the rest of my nervousness. "Or I could leave Alfred, and get a divorce. And he might try to hurt me. But he might also leave me alone. And then . . . if he did that, I would be able to transition. But I would be alone." I raise my gaze to meet Gilbert's, my voice lowering to a whisper again. "I wouldn't want that. I would . . . I would want to be with you."

Gilbert's eyes widen a little, but he doesn't look too shocked, and—thank god—he doesn't look disgusted, like he wants to reject me. I'd never even realized that he might not want me, because I have a male body, but if we get through this, Dr. Héderváry will give me surgery, and I won't be a man anymore. I'll be a woman. A lady. Finally, something beautiful.

Gilbert leans closer to me and his breath tickles my ear as he whispers, "I would want to be with you, too. If everything goes according to plan, I want us to have a happy ending. My happily ever after is you living with me. Being with me. I want to be able to tell you that I love you." He pauses a bit awkwardly, as if he hadn't meant to say that last part, and leans back a little, smiling self-deprecatingly. "Would you mind that, if I maybe mentioned that I love you, Arthur?"

My heart shudders in my chest, but not from fear. Everything in me feels shaky and warm, ecstatic. I want to wriggle and jump with glee, like a child given an ice cream cone during a trip to the zoo. This isn't a miracle like Alfred was, this is a dream come true. And now we're headed into a nightmare. But I hope, and I pray, that we will make it through, and wake up on the other side.

I lean my head against Gilbert's shoulder, twining my fingers with his clunky gloved ones. "No," I say quietly. "You can tell me you love me all you want, as long as I can say that I love you back."

Gilbert presses a soft kiss to my forehead and rests his cheek against my hair. "It's a deal, _liebling_."

Before I can enjoy how safe it feels to cuddle with him like this, or thank him for everything he's done for me, or ask him what _liebling_ means, Berwald is slowing the car to a stop and rolling down his window. I feel all of Gilbert's muscles tense; it feels like I'm curled beside a guard dog, about to growl at the threat before us. _My guardian angel._

We're parked in front of a big gate. A big man comes toward the car, leans down to look at Berwald. His accent is Russian, just like the bad guys in the action movies Alfred watches. "You have brought the packages?"

Berwald nods. "They have come willingly."

The guard's brow furrows in suspicion, and he glances into the back of the car, where Gilbert and I sit. Gilbert has sat up straight, but I stay cowered against his side, looking meek like I'm supposed to. This is essentially my only role to play in Gilbert's plan, which is good, because looking into the beady eyes of this Russian guard, everything Gilbert and Berwald agreed on has fled my mind. I almost feel like I'm back in school, where I would study as much as my brothers but always get the worst grades because as soon as that test was set down before me, I forgot everything I'd learned and could only see the blank white of panic. Oh, school days, so blissfully predictable. I could weep for that stability now.

Gilbert's lip curls, less a smile and more a baring of his teeth. "You wanna stare at us all day, or let us in to talk to Big Daddy? You don't wanna leave him waiting. If he runs out of kids to rape, he'll be upset."

The guard sneers in disgust—though if it's for Gilbert or for his boss, I can't tell—and steps away to open the gate for us. Berwald drives us down the long driveway, up to a house far grander and way more imposing than any of the rich American houses Alfred has shown me over the years. I expected to see big black and brown dogs with frothing mouths and spiked collars stalking the grounds, but instead the lawn is cheerfully green and well-trimmed, with some fountains here and there. Waiting for us at the front door, however, are two more huge guards.

Gilbert opens the car door for me, and my legs tremble as I stand. "Oh, Gilbert." I say it through my teeth, not wanting them to read my lips. "I don't want to die."

Gilbert shakes his head, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "I don't want to, either."

Berwald looks at the Russian mansion, eyes like ice. "I do not want to die on American soil. I would like to die on snow in Sweden."

Half of Gilbert's mouth smiles at that. " _Ja_? I'd wanna die someplace dark. Shady, at least. Goddamn sun. I'd wanna die at night. Someplace I can see the stars."

They both look at me expectantly, inquiringly. Where would I like to die, if I had to? What do I want my final moment to be?

"I'm sorry," I say, blushing a little. "I don't really know. Um . . . a nice place. A safe place. With Gilbert beside me, and maybe a cup of tea."

They both nod thoughtfully, Gilbert's smile widening a bit at the mention of his name. "Well," he says, "now that we've let fate hear how we'd prefer to die, let's get going before Murphy's Law kicks in. I wanna get my stomach stitched and be home in time to watch _Wheel of Fortune_."

And with that, we walk up the steps, past the guards, and into Ivan Braginski's lair.


	34. Chapter 34

Ivan Braginski is a man who likes things to be simple.

Because of this, one could easily argue that he chose the wrong path. Criminal acts are rarely simple, especially ones you get away with. To be sure, complicated matters are what Ivan handles best. He has always been cool under pressure, resourceful when the chips are down. He knows the importance of manipulating people, playing their heartstrings or using them to strangle someone. This is because, unfortunately, people are not black and white. They have thoughts, but they have feelings too, and most people let the latter influence the former.

Ivan does not do this.

But people do, so he uses this to his advantage. Of course Berwald Oxenstierna is more likely to work well if he thinks his Finnish partner is under threat. Of course Gilbert Bielschmidt will be loyal to Ivan if he treats him like an apprentice, like the authority figure Gilbert always longed for. That's how this business works. It is a predator going in for a kill. Find the weakness, latch onto it, and abuse it until the blood stops coming out.

But still. Ivan would, if he could, keep things simple. He enjoys simple things: the taste of a cigar, the cold side of a pillow at night, the precise moment the light leaves someone's eyes when you kill them. Beautifully pure things.

He would have liked Gilbert to be a simple thing. Fate has other plans. Fucking fate.

Ivan is in the ballroom of his mansion, enjoying a glass of vodka and listening to his usual mismatch of music. This song currently blaring through the speakers is a scream metal affair that he suspects paved the way to the singer's throat cancer. It would be an excellent tune to murder someone to, all thrashing drums and shrieking guitar.

Berwald leads Gilbert and Arthur into the ballroom. Ivan watches them from where he stands beside a massive painting of a man with a pear for a face. The trio comes over to stand about five feet from Ivan. Ivan takes a sip of his vodka, turns down the speakers a bit with his little remote, and addresses his guests.

"Thank you for your prompt delivery, Mr. Oxenstierna. I appreciate efficiency." The Swede inclines his head, and Ivan turns his attention to Gilbert. "I expected you to be bound and bleeding, Mr. Bielschmidt."

Gilbert's face is, for once, expressionless behind his sunglasses. "Nah, I figured I'd be the civil one outta the two of us." His voice is acidic.

Ivan raises an eyebrow. "There is a first time for everything. I see you have Arthur Jones with you. I find that curious."

The Brit would clearly rather be anywhere but here. Ivan has no idea why Alfred married this ugly thing. Those eyebrows, Jesus. Completely inelegant compared to Alfred's looks. Ivan regrets waiting so long to fuck Alfred, in retrospect. He would have been even sweeter as a boy, fresh as peaches. Juicy.

Gilbert doesn't look away from Ivan. " _Ja_ , Arthur's a friend of mine. Been staying at my place for a while. We're tight."

Ivan refuses to believe or disbelieve anything Gilbert says. Best to just be wary until facts are presented. "And why is he here?"

"To help me be eloquent with my phrasing. Arthur's a real classy Brit, see, and I wanted to make myself good and clear when I tell you to stay the goddamn holy cocksucking mother of _fuck_ out of our business." Gilbert is snarling by the end of this, and Ivan can see his breaths tremble slightly; they're uneven. He's favoring his left side. Wounded, likely by Berwald.

Ivan glances at the Swede. "What side are you on? Just so we are clear."

Berwald's response takes a moment. "I am on the side that wins."

Arthur shoots Berwald a betrayed look, but Gilbert still doesn't look away from Ivan.

"Interesting," Ivan says, finishing his vodka. "Most interesting."

All around them, the speakers play harmonicas, drums, the melody a wonky one, a disorienting circus anthem.

_For the benefit of Mr. Kite_

_There will be a show tonight_

_On trampoline_

"Ah, Gilbert, it is your favorite song," Ivan says, smiling widely. "Do you not remember how we listened to it? You knew all the words."

Gilbert shakes his head. "I'm not here to reminisce. These ain't fuckin' rose-tinted glasses. I'm here to tell you to leave me, Arthur, and Berwald alone. Are you going to agree?"

_In this way Mr. K will challenge the world!_

Ivan chuckles. "What do you think, Gilbert? Have I ever made special exceptions? Why would I start with a waste of life such as yourself? You would not spare me, if our places were switched. Do not think me the Devil. You are my demon if I am."

Gilbert pulls a gun from his jacket and aims it at Ivan.

_And of course Henry the horse dances the waltz!_

Ivan's smile widens as the song swells, xylophones sweeping and seeping like an ill sea tide. "The song is half over, Gilbert. I have no weapon. Are you really going to just shoot me? You are not that cold-blooded, are you?"

Gilbert's brow furrows, intense consideration. In the movies, he would drop his gun and they would brawl until, eventually, one or the other became the victor. They would do battle as equals, as men.

But they have never been equals. Ivan has never been a man. He has only been a monster.

_Having been some days in preparation_

_A splendid time is guaranteed for all_

Gilbert shoots Ivan in the heart.

_And tonight Mr. Kite is topping the bill!_

Ivan drops the glass with a shatter, clutches his chest, and stares at Gilbert in astonishment as he drops to the floor.

Gilbert lowers his gun, the lenses of his sunglasses reflecting the corpse of the Devil. " _Auf wiedersehen_ , fuckface."


	35. Chapter 35

**GILBERT**

The next few days are all about change.

Berwald and I settle things up with the Russians who worked for Ivan. Without a boss to lead and abuse them, they have no reason to stick around. Soldiers might have loyalty for dead guys, but mercenaries like these do not. The debts most of them owed to Braginski are wiped away. Secrets and grudges are tossed out. Berwald and I pour gasoline on Ivan's mansion and everything in it.

"Gilbert."

I turn. A blond man—my life sure is full of those, ain't it?—stands off to the side. His wrists are bruised in perfect purple bracelets. I can only imagine what Braginski did to cause that.

"Eduard," I say, nodding to him, a respectful bro kinda nod, even though we've only spoken a handful of times. He's had a fuck worse time with Ivan than I have; they've been together a lot longer than I've worked for Ivan. In other words, Eduard has a lot more hate for him than I ever could. "You wanna do the honors?"

Eduard nods, his face unchanged from its permanent dead-inside thing. Silently, he takes the lighters from me—I brought three along—flicks them all into flame mode, and hurls them through the mansion's open door and front windows. The place is engulfed almost immediately from within. The fire roars, and _damn_ if it doesn't look cool as all hell—especially with the knowledge that Ivan Braginski's body is lying in it.

Eduard's glasses glint from the orange of the flames. There's a glint in his eyes, too, but it's not from the light reflecting. For the first time, I see a tiny smile tug on the Estonian's lips. He's not happy, but he's a step closer than he has been for a long while.

Berwald heads home without much fanfare. "We will stay in touch," he tells me, like we've already agreed on it, which I suppose we have. Just to be sure our little valuables stay safe. To let each other know if Braginski's old enemies come back to haunt us.

Well, I say _if_. But there's a good chance it'll be _when_.

"I'll probably get a house call from Zwingli," I tell Berwald as I walk him to his car. "But I'm sure I can strike up a deal with him. He loves his guns. Braginski sure as hell ain't using his anymore."

They're in the backseat of my car, actually, wrapped up in tartan blankets. Millions' worth of customized, fancy-as-fuck weaponry. Gorgeous guns, and I don't even care about guns, so you know they're nice. That Swiss fuck won't say no to these babies.

"Watch your back over there," I warn Berwald. "Bondevik is in your backyard. He'll have the Dane sniffing around for you."

Berwald nods. "I know. I have handled him before. I will again."

We shake hands, another bro type gesture that doesn't have as much behind it as I'd like. I almost wanna ask him to stay, be a comrade in arms with me, but it'd be silly and selfish and stupid. And anyway, this ain't his home. That little blond in his photograph is his home.

Just like Arthur is my home.

As Berwald drives away, I look to Eduard again. "What are you gonna do now?"

Eduard regards me. After a moment, he replies, "Find Raivis, hopefully. Have you looked?"

"In a few places, but I haven't wanted to find him, with Braginski breathing down my neck. Now, I could find him in . . . well, depends. If I look like I mean it, I could find him in a day, probably less."

Eduard nods. "Well, then. Do that."

"What are you gonna do?" I ask, again. Gotta repeat yourself with these people.

"Use some of Ivan's money to buy a house for me and Raivis. Maybe find out how to get a home schooling program set up for him. He'd never fit in at a public school, and he's way behind." Eduard shakes his head. The smile from earlier is long gone. "His family is all dead. You and me, Gilbert, are all he has left."

Funny how we're all tied together, ain't it? Like life with Braginski was some disaster we lived through. Then again, that's a pretty good damn way to describe it. We're survivors.

"You're a good man, Estonian," I tell him, and mean it. "Let me give you a ride out of here."

Eduard gets into the passenger seat of my car. "Thanks," he replies, with just a microscopic bit of life in his voice. "Prussian."

And Arthur, of course, has her own changes to go through. Dominik gives her the go-ahead for surgery; they're working from the bottom up. _Testicle removal and penile inversion_ , that's what Dominik said. I gotta tell ya, the thought of someone chopping my nuts off and flipping my dick inside-out makes me cringe, but Arthur seems relieved to be finally rid of hers. It's strange to me that I'll never see Arthur naked as a man, but I don't think Arthur would have it any other way. After all, this way, I'll only know what the true Arthur looks like.

But I still worry.

"Don't fret about it, Gilbert," Dominik tells me while he's stitching my stomach. "I've done almost a dozen sex reassignment surgeries, and the vast majority were male to female. This is quickly becoming my specialty. It'll be a walk in the park."

I'd like to be convinced. " _Fuck_ me, that hurts. What about for Arthur? Jesus _cock_ block, Dominik, watch your damn needle. What's the recovery like?"

"Oh, don't be such a baby." Dominik finishes the stitches neatly. "It varies. Some people only need four weeks before they can be up and moving, some take three months. Like I told her, she probably won't feel one hundred percent until six months have passed and we have her on a structured hormone therapy. But—and I told her this, too—it's essentially a wound that I'll be making inside her, and her body will naturally treat it like one. It'll try to close the hole, even after it stops being at risk for infection. So she'll have to do vaginal dilation."

I stop my hissed breaths through the pain in my stomach—I don't care about pain when I'm _doing_ something, but it's a bitch to just sit through—and take a second to ponder that. "Vaginal dilation. Like, as in, stretching? Her vagina? With what?"

"Well, they make equipment for it, but a dildo works just as well." Dominik snips the extra thread from the stitches. "There you go. No jet-skiing until that heals."

"Dildo," I repeat, arching an eyebrow.

"Is that all you heard? I'm sure you can help her with it. You know how to use dildos, if I recall."

"More than I'd like." Picture a crazy Hungarian girl shoving a plastic penis up my ass after somehow convincing me to try prostate milking. Actually, don't picture that, you'll go blind. "You still have that purple one with the nubs? That was my favorite."

"Get out of here and go find that poor Latvian boy, Gilbert."

So I go, knowing Arthur will be safe at the clinic—mostly because we don't have anyone after us anymore, but Dominik would protect Arthur if it came to it. I check every place on that list Ivan gave me. I even go back and check the places I already checked. No Raivis, place after place. He could be miles away. He could be out of the state. He could be dead, half-eaten by coyotes and homeless people. But I have to look.

I'm at the last place on the list, an abandoned nursery home, when my cellphone rings. Just a normal ring, no Beatles. That song was getting old. "This is your captain speaking."

A soft giggle. "Gilbert."

"Hey, sweetheart. Are you still at the clinic?"

"Yes. I'm about to go in for my surgery." Her voice only trembles a tiny bit. "I'm . . . maybe a little scared."

"What? You, scared? No way. You survived a trip to Ivan Braginski's house, without a scratch! You ran away from your madhouse transphobic husband. And you have sleepovers with a weird albino hit man. I'd say you're the bravest, luckiest girl in the world. You're gonna be just fine, and I'll be right there with you when you wake up."

I can hear her smiling. "Thank you, Gilbert. For everything. I love you. You make me laugh, and you make me feel so safe, and . . ." She takes a soft breath. "I just love you so much."

My heart swells in my chest. It feels like the fire in Braginski's mansion, warming me ferociously from the inside out. "I love you, too, Arthur. I—"

"Oh," she says, in surprise. "I'm sorry, I have to go now, Gilbert. It—it's time. I think I'm not scared, actually. I think I'm . . . I'm excited. I'm ready."

"Hell yeah you're ready, Arthur."

"Not Arthur, Gilbert. I've decided on a name. The doctor thinks it's pretty. I think Arthur is gone now. I think I'd like to be . . . Alice."

I'm smiling now, grinning too big for my face. Jesus, why did I ever think I was happy before I met this girl? What a damn fool I was.

"That is a beautiful name," I tell her. "I'll be there when you open your eyes, Alice. You'll do great, _liebling_. Goodbye for now, okay?"

"Goodbye, Gilbert." I hear a bit of Dominik's voice, muffled in the background, and then the call ends.

I tuck her love and bravery into my pocket for safekeeping, and then I venture into my last hope of finding Raivis Galante.


	36. Chapter 36

Raivis has never seen his own ribs before, but he can now. He's never known what real hunger is. He knows now that being peckish for supper after a day of breakfast, lunch, and snacking is not the same as being truly hungry. He feels so empty right now. So small. So lonely. Maybe he could try eating grass, or leaves on the trees out there. They probably wouldn't taste very good, but cows eat grass, and they don't seem to mind it. And giraffes eat leaves, don't they? Then again, boys and giraffes are different things . . .

And that's when he hears the voice.

"Raivis? Are you here?"

He thinks he might recognize this voice, or maybe just its accent. It isn't Russian, not one of the beady-eyed thugs. It's not Estonian, either. He can't put a finger on it, but the boots clomping down the hall outside Raivis's room sound kind of mean. Maybe he should be scared of this half-remembered man.

Maybe he should have already run.

But there's only one exit to this room. He's tried the windows; they're all stuck shut.

"Raivis? I'm not gonna hurt ya, okay? I'm here to take you back to Eduard. Not to Ivan, just to Eduard." A door across the hallway creaks as the man checks the room. Which will he check next, the one beside that—or turn around and open Raivis's door?

_What if he does want to take me to Eduard? But what if he's lying? How can I tell?_

The man in the hallway turns around.

Raivis panics and hurries into the supply closet near the back wall. He leaves one of its double doors slightly ajar; that'll make it look more natural, won't it?

The man opens the door. His voice is gentle. "Raivis, are you in here?"

 _Yes_.

"I'm gonna be honest, alright? Ivan sent me to kill you after you ran away from him. That was really brave, by the way, and nice of Eduard to help you. He told me what happened. But listen, Raivis, I was never gonna hurt you. I'd never touch a kid. That's not cool. I don't like that. In fact, I'm gettin' out of this hurting people business altogether. You wanna know the last person I hurt? Ivan. I killed him."

Raivis can't help but gasp at that. Ivan Braginski is dead? A dark god like him, felled by mere mortals? Maybe this man really is an angel, like Eduard spoke about. Did God finally answer Raivis and send an angel to rescue him?

"He's not gonna hurt me, you, Eduard, or anybody else ever again. You're safe now, Raivis." The man pauses. "You might as well just come out, buddy. I can see your wrappers on the floor."

Raivis peeks out of the closet, a little fox in a hole. He sees the protein bar wrappers on the floor, littered like silvery leaves. "Oh." He looks toward his savior and feels his eyes widen in surprise.

Gilbert raises a pale eyebrow. "Something on my face?"

Raivis steps out, putting his backpack on his shoulders. "No," he replies. "I just never knew angels could wear cowboy hats."

Gilbert gives him an odd look over his sunglasses, and takes off the hat, holding it over his chest like a wild west gentleman. "Better?"

Raivis peers up at Gilbert. Backlit from the natural light in the hallway, Gilbert's ashen hair glows a gentle white, almost like . . . an aura.

Raivis smiles. "Better."

Gilbert shakes his head, ruffles the boy's hair with a gloved hand. "C'mon, let's get you back to Eduard. You two have some catchin' up to do."


	37. Chapter 37

**ALICE**

"Okay, Alice," says the doctor, smiling down at me. I can't see his mouth through the sanitary mask, but I can see his eyes, warm and green. "Can you count backward from ten?"

"Ten," I say, my words clouding the plastic fitted over my mouth and nose. "Nine . . . eight . . ."

And then the light fades, and I am floating. I see my friends, the fairies and the unicorns. The mint bunny's wings brush my face, feathers so soft on my cheeks. I reach to touch them, but they float away from me, or maybe I float away from them. They fade like the light.

"I love you, baby." Alfred cups my face in his hands. Our wedding, him dashing in his black tuxedo and my white suit proclaiming false purity.

_ You may now kiss your groom. _

_ Bride, _ I cry.  _ Not groom. Bride! _

His lips taste of blood, and his eyes are azure when we pull apart. His golden light darkens, drips black, oily corruption. He looms over me, evil and Russian—then he raises his hand, and when he hits me, it's the scarred, calloused blow of the Scot, the stepfather who was never my father. A demon into a demon into a demon.

I don't feel him hit me. Before his hand connects with my face, he bursts into butterflies, everything flapping festive colors, gossamer blessings leaving me behind.

He is nothing, I know, as I have always known but never wanted to believe. He is a ghost. He is invisible. He is nothing to me, anymore—not because he has changed, but because I have.

And then I am standing in front of myself in the mirrored blackness. Arthur Kirkland regards me with eyes like emeralds.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "For leaving you."

Arthur tilts his head, eyeing me.

"I'm sorry," I say again. "For killing you."

His brow furrows a little, and he shakes his head. "You didn't kill me. I'll still carry on. Just—" He waves to the black surrounding us. "Elsewhere."

I look around, too. "But is it fair? I get to go on, but you don't. I get to be with Gilbert—"

"Yeah, you can have him, love." He holds up a hand. "I'm fine without that. How exhausting. You have far more patience than I do."

I giggle a little at that. It's true, back when I was Arthur, I would think someone like Gilbert was too much. I never realized how much I've changed. "Do you miss Alfred?"

Arthur scoffs. "Like a hole in the head." But I can see, in his eyes—in my eyes—that there is a part of him that will always love Alfred Jones, no matter what.

"It's alright," I tell him softly. "I'll miss the happy times with him, too."

Arthur glances away for a moment, thick eyebrows knitting together. We stand together in silence, the same, but different.

The darkness flickers a little, and I know immediately that it is time to go. It doesn't feel as sad as I thought it might. It feels like having a friendship that's been drifting apart for ages, and this is the last time we'll ever see each other. This is the end, finally the end. At once a relief and a—not a tragedy, but a shame.

"Goodbye, Arthur," I say, holding out a hand to my not-self.

Arthur looks at me a moment, then holds up his arms. "Oh, come here, love." We embrace, and he pats my back. "I must say, this is one of the nicest hallucinations I've ever had."

"Um . . . thank you?"

The light comes rushing back, and in the last second, Arthur and I whisper us one,  _ Cheerio. _

When I open my eyes it's only a hair's width. The air oozes over my skin. This is the kind of snug lowness I always wanted from alcohol, but never managed to get. It feels like I have ten hundred blankets piled on top of me, weighing me down, but comfortable, too. Getting wasted always made me feel steamrolled. Dead to the world.

"There she is," says Gilbert, and I slowly turn my head to see him seated beside me, smiling lovingly. "How are you feeling?"

"O . . . kay . . ." I can't speak clearly. It feels like my throat has cotton stuffed in it.

"Doc says the surgery went great," Gilbert tells me. "Everything worked nice and smooth. You did great, just like I said. See how awesome I am? I can see the future. Oh, and I found Raivis. He was kinda thin, but he'll be alright." He leans closer to me, kisses my cheek. "I love you, Alice. Just in case you forgot."

I don't have the strength to smile. "I l . . . love . . ." My eyes droop closed. Time puddles and oozes, reality drifting away again.

I feel strong but gentle fingers holding my own. "Just rest, sweetheart. There's no rush. We have all the time in the world."


	38. Chapter 38

Alfred's anger has been growing since he was just a little boy.

His family, his nanny, his teachers always praised his behavior and personality.  _ Alfred Jones is such a sweet, cheerful child. He's always so happy, isn't he, dear? So bright. He never gets upset at his mistakes, he just keeps moving forward. A hard worker just like his dad, aren't you, son? Good boy. _

But this is only what others see. In fact, this is mostly what he sees, as well. He never felt much anger when he was younger. He just had a mindset of,  _ Oh, something went wrong. Oh well, I'll fix it. _ He didn't realize, back then, that he did have anger within him, he just never had the chance to feel it. His subconscious tucked bad feelings away for him, putting them in what Alfred now pictures as a huge glass jar. The anger and sadness and jealousy and contempt he's felt over the years has filled the glass jar to the very top. He can see through the glass, and he can see those feelings in there, writhing over each other malevolently.

He did get angry at Arthur, that last morning before his husband ran away. Well, that was more irritation than anger. Because Arthur was being foolish, saying those disgusting things. Talking about becoming some different person. Some perversion. Breaking up their marriage. How could he do such a thing?

That poured anger into the glass jar. Anger and sadness and betrayal.

And then Alfred begged Ivan Braginski for help. The payment for assistance that was never given: ravaging Alfred's body. A rape he couldn't afford to say no to. Rage overflowed in the jar.

And now his assistant brings him the news. "Your father thought I should let you know," says Toris, eyes slightly worried. "Ivan Braginski has been killed, and his house partially burned down."

Alfred stares out at his office's window at the business parking lot below. His hands tense on the top of his chair's leather back. "Oh," he says quietly. "What a shame. Do they know who did it?"

"Uh . . . yes, they do. One of the guards traded us information for a handsome payment. The man who killed Mr. Braginski was Gilbert Bielschmidt. Um, also known as the Prussian."

Alfred has not heard the Prussian's real name, but he knows the nickname. The title. An albino killer who only comes out at night, supposedly.

"He was not the only one there, however. Berwald Oxenstierna was also there." Alfred gives no response; he's never heard the name. "And . . . Arthur was there."

Alfred's glass jar cracks, one delicate fissure slowly branching over the glass like crystal veins. "I see. Where is he now?"

"We don't know for sure, but he has apparently been staying with the Prussian."

Alfred's shoulders stiffen under his suit jacket. The leather of his chair bunches in his fingers. "Do we know where the Prussian lives?"

"Yes, but they haven't been spending much time there. Arthur has been staying at a . . ."

Alfred turns his head to look at Toris. "At a what?"

His assistant's green eyes are more than slightly worried now. "A transitional clinic owned and run by Domink Héderváry."

The glass jar explodes, shattering and letting horrible beasts of emotion escape. They cascade through Alfred, at once burning hot and biting cold. Two decades of being a good rich boy go up in flames as Alfred picks up his leather chair and hurls it at the window. The glass breaks, a sound that should be satisfying but only serves to agitate Alfred further. The chair falls, falls, crashes against the concrete below, breaking into three pieces.

Toris stares, terrified. He's never seen his boss like this before. No one has. A tiny part of Alfred shares that terror.

The majority of him just smiles like murder.  _ This is anger, huh? Feels good. Think I like it. _

"Cancel my meetings," Alfred says, straightening his tie. "I'm going to pay a visit to that clinic."

Toris nods, hurriedly tapping away at his phone. "Yes, sir. Will you be back today?"

Alfred stops in the doorway of his office, considering the question. "No, Mr. Laurinaitis," he replies. "I won't be back."


	39. Chapter 39

**GILBERT**

Dominik and I leave Alice to sleep with her painkillers. We go to Dominik's office, and he brings out a bottle of champagne.

"Dominik, you asshole," I say admiringly. "Drinking in the workplace?"

He shakes his head. "Not drinking, just a little celebration of a successful surgery. Obviously if I was going to operate today, I wouldn't be getting sloshed."

"I'd love to see you get sloshed. It's been—what? Five years since we last hung out for a night?" I watch him pour us both a glass of bubbly stuff. "We gotta hang out again. I miss livin' it up with you. How'd we end up only together once in a blue moon?"

Dominik smiles fondly up at me, leaning against his desk. "Well, we just got busy with life, didn't we? I got married to a woman who already had a life of her own going on, so I was more focused on fitting into that routine. Never have a teenage daughter, that's my advice, Gil. Plus, the transitioning was newer to me back then. I had a lot of priorities, and I'm sorry to say you got pushed down the list."

Jeez, this guy has the answer to everything, doesn't he? And he has the therapist superpower of saying things, no matter what they are, in a way that won't make you get mad. He's a perpetually reasonable guy who came from a fiery girl, but I love her in the past and him in the present. Not Alice-love, but friend-love. Comrade love.

I don't have an army behind me, but I have a surprise bag of people who'll help me if I need it, and that's better than nothing.

"Not to mention," Dominik adds, handing me my glass, "that it's hard to hang out with someone who sleeps during the day."

"Yeah, well." I shrug, feeling my lips quirking into a smile without me even telling them to. "I thought there was nothing for me during the day. But I kinda like the light now. Even though the sun is a bastard."

Dominik laughs. "I call that positive progress. I'll drink to that. Cheers."

We clink our glasses together, and just as I tip mine back to chug it all in one go 'cause I party hard like that, I see a flash of movement in the corner of my eye. In the hallway, someone striding by, glimpsed for a second through Dominik's office doorway.

We are not expecting guests.

"Hey," I say loudly, expecting the footfalls to cease. When they don't, I push the glass into Dominik's hand and run into the hall. "Hey! Get back here!"

The man does not get back here. He goes into Alice's room, the only door that's open. When he turns in profile, to enter the room, I see two things I don't like.

One, he's fucking insufferably handsome, which can only mean that he's Alfred fuck-ass Jones.

Two, he has a gun in his hand.

I sprint down the hall. It's like a fucking nightmare where you're running but you don't move. It's fifteen feet I have to run, but it feels like it takes a lifetime. Any second, I could hear that gun go off. I claw into the room.

Alfred is standing beside the bed, staring down at Alice, a hand moving to touch her face.

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH HER!" I crash into him, dragging him back, away from her. He tries to fight me. I grab his shoulder and his wrist and I break the fucker's arm with a hideous grinding, creaking, splintering-under-flesh noise. Alfred screams, the base single-syllable of utter agony. The gun clatters to the ground, and I pick it up, press the muzzle against Alfred's temple. One final trigger pulled. The last person I ever kill. The perfect end to an illustrious career of murder. One last bullet. I—

"No." The weak, whimpered word comes from Alice, who has to fight through pain and painkillers to see us, to speak to us. "No, Gil . . . bert, don . . . don't kill .. . him . . ."

I look at her, almost trembling with how much I want to kill this motherfucker. He made her run away. He got Ivan on her trail. He caused all of this. People like him caused all of this.

Alice's heavy lidded gaze does it best to focus on Alfred. "I'm . . . a lady . . . Like I . . . wanted . . . no more . . . Arthur . . . sorry."

Alfred's breaths are big, and I realize that he's crying. "How could you do this to us? We were so happy, everything was great . . ." His voice shakes too much too speak through; he clears his throat and continues, "I wanted to talk to you about having kids. And then you go and do this? How could you?"

He sounds less like a sad, stupid bitch and more like an angry, accusing bitch, so I flick the safety on the gun and smash the muzzle into Alfred's cheekbone. "I don't like the fuckin' tone, Yankee Doodle."

Alfred yelps at the blow and looks miserably at Alice. "You killed him. I loved him, and you killed him. I'll never . . . I'll never get him back." And then he drops to his knees on the floor, head in his hand (the other arm flops uselessly, kinda broken a little bit), and he sobs. Big ol' sobs, wracking his body.

Did I do this when Elizaveta turned into Dominik? No. I got drunk, I woke up in an alley, I had a shower, and I got on with my life. There's no way this rich kid is more mentally unsound than me, so why the fuck is he having an issue here? Goddamn transphobic idiot.

Alice is, of course, kinder than me. "It's al . . . alright, Alf . . . red . . . I for . . . give you."

He doesn't deserve it. At all. I don't care how broken his heart is. He doesn't deserve anything from Alice, much less forgiveness. Really, I don't deserve anything from her, either. Do you see how good a person she is? She deserves way, way better than the two fuckers in front of her. But she wants me. Like I said before, fuck God, but damn. Thanks for this, man.

Alfred looks up at the girl in the hospital bed, and I see the emotions changing on his face. Confusion, first. Then contempt, the desperate kind where you know you're in the wrong. Then bitter, bitter sorrow. And then just a light sadness, like the look you have when you drive by a dead cat on the side of the road. Like, oh, poor thing. Like oh, that's a shame.

Alfred gets to his feet. "I don't want to see you again," he says, his tone matching his face. Light, polite. "Any of you. I want to . . . start fresh. I want to move on. I want to be rid of it. So." He looks up at me, down at Alice, and over at Dominik watching in the doorway. "Goodbye."

And with that, he walks out, clutching his arm and stumbling every few steps. Maybe I was wrong about him being less crazy than me. Jesus Christ.

Alice is already asleep again, all her strength taken by this freak-out from Alfred. I see, though, that I was wrong about what Alfred had been doing when I came in. He wasn't touching her face, he was leaving something on the pillow beside her head. I pick it up with my thumb and forefinger. It's a pure gold ring with  _ Arthur _ engraved in it in fancy cursive. But the inside is engraved, too. Fresh, I can tell. The font is a lot easier to read this time, as if that would make it more true.

_ Always. _

Not quite, Jones. Not quite.


	40. Chapter 40

From there, Gilbert and Alice's time together is a gleaming silver trace, a bird soaring upward, a ribboning triumph of besting the fates others had set out for them. For the most part, the times are happy ones. Alice finishes her transition physically: her eyebrows are trimmed, her Adam's apple shaved down, her body made softer by the estrogen shots. She offers to have implants put into her breasts, but Gilbert assures her that he prefers the gentle slopes of her body over any unnatural alternative. And, when they do make love for the first time, the second, third—it is always with the same awe from Gilbert as he worships her and holds her as if she is something valuable, something precious.

Of course, there are darker times, too. There are times when Alice's nightmares return in full force, when the hormones in her system overwhelm her, when she thinks she may never stop crying. And things have gone wrong for Gilbert, too—though he smooths things over with Zwingli, on more than one occasion he is jumped by the gangs he has mistreated in the past. He does not fight back; both parties know it is fair retribution, even if Gilbert was just following orders before. He loses a tooth one occasion, breaks three ribs another. But Dominik always heals his wounds. While Gilbert soothes the damaged parts of Alice's mind, she soothes the broken parts of his body. No matter how dark things get, they are there to give light.

As for the others, Gilbert and Alice hear only bits and pieces. Alfred Jones holds a funeral service for Arthur, and Gilbert takes Alice to visit the grave afterward. She touches the letters of the stone, but she does not weep as Alfred did. It is not a reason to mourn. One should not be sad for an ending; one should be happy for the new beginning.

Berwald and Tino have a new beginning of their own: they send pictures of their adopted son, a sweet-faced boy in a sailor hat. Peter, he's called. They _promise_ to bring him to America one day, so Gilbert and Alice can meet him.

Eduard, good to his word, does make a home for himself and Raivis, but they spend many evenings at Gilbert's house. Eduard and Alice work with a surprising camaraderie in the kitchen, making peculiar English/Estonian hybrid meals while Gilbert teaches Raivis to wrestle in the living room. Not comrades, but family.

And there are the small things. Alice's first shopping spree for dresses. Gilbert giving her a cheery-voiced canary for her birthday. The discovery that, when Gilbert wraps his arm around her in bed, her head nestles perfectly under his chin.

And, of course, one bright day, brighter than any day Alice has seen before or since, Gilbert gets down on one knee. The ring he offers to her is not gold but silver, and a small but beautiful emerald gleams on it.  _ Will you marry me, sweetheart? _

And in that moment, Alice pauses. She feels, both around her and inside her, the sense of togetherness. She knows he's still there, watching her, following her, seeing where she will take them. She knows Arthur is smiling for her, just as Gilbert is. She knows what Gilbert and Arthur and everyone want her to say. And, for once, it's what she wants, as well. So, with her hands over her beating heart, she says it.

_ Yes. _

 

_The End._


End file.
